


Not Quite "Technical" Difficulties

by Besin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality - Pre-pilot Divergence, Bad Sex, Barebacking, Breakups, Casual dating, Coming Out, Douching, Drug Use, Endgame Sterek, Explicit Sexual Content, Exploration of sexuality, First Time, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kitsune, Knotting, Leszy, M/M, Magic, Marijuana, Mentions of Douching, Mild description of wounds, PTSD, Polish Mythology, Possession, Sexual Content, Sexuality Crisis, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Vivid Descriptions of Hallucinations, one-sided relationships, sexual awakening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 90,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1309120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besin/pseuds/Besin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Stiles had planned to spend the summer before their Sophomore year in a stress-free haze of video games and junk food. And sure, maybe there was some "drug experimentation;" nothing too serious. But then Scott got bitten by a strange animal in the woods. It was only a matter of time before they were introduced to a world of not just werewolves, but mermaids, tree spirits, and creatures from disappointingly poorly documented mythology.</p><p>Alternate Reality in which Scott is bitten two months sooner by a non-alpha Peter and the Nemeton was never cut down. All tags will be incorporated in due time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Panic in its Purest Form Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not for circulation outside of fandom. This includes Goodreads.

Sometimes, in the most inconvenient places, Stiles found it hard to breath. Most of the time someone would be there to talk him down; to bring him out of his wide-eyed and panicked stupor with a calm hand and a quiet voice. Usually this was Scott, Melissa, or the sheriff. But sometimes there wasn't anyone to take care of him. It was just Stiles, the air not quite making it into his lungs, and the things that scared him most. The doctors called them panic attacks.

It started with the tingling in his fingertips, or a sudden inability to control his legs. More often than not he would drop to the ground, arms thrust out in front of him to catches fall. His hands clung to whatever was convenient: a chair, a person, a door frame. That's when the drumming in his head began, traveling throughout the entire body in a consistent pulse of pressure and awareness. After this came the terror. Pure, unadulterated terror that struck him over and over like a lightning drawn to a broad. It left him nauseous, weak, and dragged all the air out of him without warning and without mercy. Only at this point did it become hard to breathe.

After a while the panic attacks seemed to subside. The trauma of watching his mother die, slowly and agonizingly as she forgot more and more about their lives, and its effect on him was waning. Before long there were entire months between attacks. They stopped creeping up on him in the middle of the night, leaving him breathless and paralyzed upon waking from a nightmare. Upon entering high school Stiles discovered a whole new type terror.

If it weren't for that very terror -- for the supernatural elements that were forced into his life when his best friend was bitten by a werewolf of all things -- he might have had a normal life. But he was Genim “Stiles” Stilinski; normal was the last thing he should have expected.

**...**

When it all began Stiles wasn't nearly as sober as he should have been.

“But _dude_ , the trees are like _trees_ , and they _grow_ and stuff. Except when they don’t, which isn’t cool, but they’re _trees_.”

Scott wasn’t, either.

Glancing over from his place on the park bench, Stiles gripped his elbows tighter through his hoodie, trying to keep the heat in. His leg was moving. Some part of him always had to be moving, so that wasn’t really new. It practically vibrated, bent at the knee and jumping up and down with each twitch of his foot. “You okay there bud?”

“They’re _tall_ and _awesome_.”

“I have no idea what you’re getting at. I’m not gonna lie; I have no clue.”

“ _Trees_ , man.”

“Think you’ve had enough time with the pipe?” Stiles joked, tapping his fingers against his stomach and almost giggling stupidly. His leg came to an abrupt stop. Craning his neck to give the boy on the ground a searching look, he asked, “Can you even _hear_ me?”

“I know where you stand,” Scott attempted to croon, voice cracking every other note in the horrific way puberty tends to do. “Silent in the trees.”

“Shit.” Stiles sighed, dragging himself into a sitting position. “Okay, I’m calling it. You are officially too ripped to function.”

“And that’s where I am!” the boy continued loudly, even as his friend stooped down and dragged him up off the ground by his arm. “Silent in the _trees_.”

Grabbing what was left of the little baggie they’d shared between them, and the pipe Scott had bought as a joke in a Saturday Market, Stiles ignored the sudden weight in his stomach at the sound of rustling in the bushes. He dragged his friend’s arm over his shoulder. It was probably a rabbit. Or a squirrel. _Or a mountain lion_ , his traitorous imagination supplied. And wouldn’t that be a way to go; stoned teens mauled by mountain lion. They would become a cautionary tale for the next generation. _That is what happens when you do drugs; you get mauled and eaten by wild animals._

Not that he thought Marijuana should even be counted as a drug.

“Where are we goin’?”

“Back to the car. I’m not sleeping on a bench when there is a perfectly good Jeep half a mile away.”

“But-”

“Not sleeping on a bench.”

Stumbling blindly over his feet, Scott attempted to keep pace with Stiles as he set kicked some dirt over the fire and headed off toward the car.

“You’re really not good at the walking thing right now,” the more cognizant boy commented, glancing over at his friend as he guided him around a particularly large branch. He tried not to be too freaked out by the rustling in the bushes as he stumbled blindly down the path. _It’s just a rabbit. Or a raccoon._

“But we can’t leave. The trees will get lonely.”

“The trees will be fine, Scott. They have each other.”

“At least we have _each_ -”

“Can you do me a favor, dude? Shut up.”

Scott continued mumbling, attempting to pull away from Stiles every other step. “What time is it, anyway?” he managed to ask somewhat coherently five minutes later.

“I don’t know. Ten?” Stiles suggested, digging into his pocket to retrieve his phone. “I stand corrected. It is eleven-twenty,” he drawled methodically, tone sharp as he paused on each syllable like it had offended him.

“Shit. Doesn’t your dad get off in, like, an hour?”

Nodding quietly, the more cognizant boy adjusted his friend’s arm across his shoulders to jam his phone back in his pocket. “Yes, Scott. Yes he does.” Stiles went quiet as he mentally catalogued the things he’d have to do before his father got home. A shower was obvious. He’d have to put everything he was wearing in a plastic bag, too, and hide that somewhere. Probably in the closet, next to the box he labeled “special underwear,” which was where he kept the things he didn’t want his dad to find. The last thing he needed was his dad catching him with weed. Not that weed was the worst thing he had in there.

Halfway back to the car there was a sudden loud rustling in the bushes, sending Stiles pinwheeling to the ground in surprise. It was only natural that Scott went down with him. Before either knew what was really going on they were haphazard groaning pile of limbs.

Scott groaned. “Dude, what the hell?”

“Did you hear that?” the other boy hissed, stumbling to his feet. “I think there’s something in the bushes.”

“We’re in the woods, Stiles,” Scott deadpanned. “Of course there’s something in the bushes.”

“Hello?” the younger boy shouted, ignoring Scott’s comment.

Obviously there was no response.

“It’s probably a rabbit or something,” the older boy groaned, attempting to push himself into a sitting position.

There was a short bout of rustling before a _something_ burst out of the bushes, streaking across the path in a blurred mass of brown. Stiles screamed, jerking away on the instinct to _run, run far, far away_. His feet didn't take him very far; only a few inches. Just enough for his shoes to catch on his friend's arm, sending him to the ground in a flailing ball of panicked limbs. Again.

“Owe -- hey! Watch where you’re stepping! Shit!”

"What _was_ that?"

Scott glanced back at his friend, eyes narrowing and jaw clenching in an open scowl as he clutched at the arm his friend had assaulted. “What? You didn’t see it?” he hissed.

Stiles fought to get his balance back, rolling to his side and pushing himself off the ground. He fixed wide eyes on the older boy. “See what?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Shuffling forward, running a hand along his buzz cut nervously, the scared boy gnawed on his lip for a moment before shifting his weight uneasily between his knees. “What did you see?”

“It was pretty big. Like, huge,” Scott began, hands making vague references to size in the air between them. “And it had bright red eyes, and really strong-looking legs.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Its teeth were pretty vicious looking, too. Like it could chew through a fence no problem.”

Stiles waited in bated silence for a moment, eagerly leaning forward. After a while he anxiously asked, “Well? What was it?”

“It was a big,” Scott began, pausing for emphasis. “Dark,” he continued, leaning forward with his eyes wide. “Bunny.”

The younger boy blinked. Settling his weight onto his shoes, he made a face and nodded. “You are totally fucking with me.”

“Yup.”

“And I kinda deserved it.”

“Yeah, you kinda did.”

Stiles frowned. “Dude, weren’t you higher than the swim team’s losing streak five minutes ago? Why -- no, _how_ \-- are you suddenly sober?”

Scott made a ‘are you kidding me?’ face and waved at his friend with his elbow. “Having my arm stepped on might have had something to do with it.”

“Right. That. Well, we should, you know, get going. Preferably before my dad gets home or something jumps out of the bushes and eats us.” Without leaving much room for argument, the younger boy jumped to his feet and offered his hand to pull his friend to his.

“You’re so paranoid,” Scott joked. “I should stop getting high with you.”

“Then who will you get high with? Jackson?”

Just as they both had their feet on the ground, the pair froze as a deep, menacing growl floated over from the bushes.

Stiles whimpered. “What was that?”

The sound continued. It was louder this time, and accompanied by the rustling of bushes.

“Didn’t your dad do that presentation in second grade?” Scott whispered cautiously. “The one about what you’re supposed to do if you’re approached by a rabid animal?”

“How should I know? That was, like, seven years ago.”

“He’s your dad.”

“Which should be explanation enough as to why eight-year-old me wasn’t listening.”

The thing, whatever it was, seemed to be creeping closer.

“Alright. Plan, Stiles. We need a plan. Anything?”

“A plan? Any plan? Okay, how about this -- you run in one direction, I run the other. We meet up at the Jeep. That way, worst case scenario, only one of us dies.”

“Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“I really hate this plan.”

“I know, buddy. Count of three?”

There was another rustle as the thing burst from the bushes. Before either of them knew what they were doing the boys jumped apart with a simultaneous desperate shout of, “Three!” and raced in opposite directions.

Stiles wasn't aware of how long he had been running, or how far his legs had taken him. He was only aware of the overwhelming fear that overrode his senses, making him feel like a completely different person as he stumbled over roots, rocks, and plants. It felt like the entire world was rushing around him. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't bring himself to think, just for a moment, that he could be caught as he stumbled blindly through the pitch black underbrush. Because if he stopped for too long...

He didn't want to think about that.

It would be a long while before he slowed to a walk. He glanced behind him as the paranoia that came with smoking, and being chased by an animal that he couldn't identify, seemed to settle into something manageable. Just what was that thing? It didn't look like a mountain lion. Didn't look like a coyote. If Stiles didn't know that wolves had disappeared from California eight years prior that would have been his default. But there were no wolves in California. Everyone knew that.

It took Stiles a lot longer than he would have liked to find the path again. The ground was damp -- probably from what little bit of rain they’d gotten earlier that day. Once or twice he had to catch himself with his hands after slipping on a damp fern or clump of needles from the overhead trees. By the time he made it to the parking lot he was ready to cry. He’s managed to escape a wild animal in the dark while high, and all he had to show for it was a small twinge in his ankle.

Collapsing against the side of his baby, the boy breathed out a sigh of relief. He then promptly threw his arms up in the air and weakly proclaimed, “I’m alive! Oh thank god I’m alive.” For a little while he did nothing. He just kept himself up against the side of his Jeep proclaiming his love for the world with twitches and half-sobs.

He screamed when his phone vibrated.

It took a moment for the initial terror to pass. Digging it out of his pocket, Stiles checked the caller ID before he pressed the screen to the side of his face. “Scotty, dude, I was about to call. I’m at my Jeep. Where are you?” At first Stiles didn’t know what to make of the heavy breathing over the line. The catch in breath and a squeak. Suddenly the panic was back. “Scott? Scott, is everything okay? Talk to me man!”

“ _It_ …” There was a sob. A desperate, weak, sob of an inhale. The kind that made you cough and spit afterward. And for a second that’s what it sounded like Scott was doing. “ _It bit me and ran. I think I’m_ …” Another heavy, desperate breath. “ _I’m bleeding bad, and I... lost my inhaler_.”

“Breathe for me, okay? Just breathe,” Stiles began as calmly as he could, not quite sure who he was talking to -- him or Scott. “I’ve got a first aid kit in the back. Your spare inhaler is in your backpack at home, right? Third pocket?”

“ _Yeah_.”

“Okay, then you need to breathe right now. In and out, just like your mom said, okay? You just have to get through this one. Where are you?”

“ _I don’t_ …” There was some rustling, then a groan. “ _I’m at the bottom of… a ditch. I think… I saw that old mansion… before I fell_.” His gasps were getting closer together. More desperate.

“Breathe, Scott. Just breathe. I’m going to drive there, okay? And I need you to stay calm. I’ll find you as soon as possible.” Then, softly, he suggested, “Maybe we should call the police.”

“ _And get arrested for… drug possession? No_.”

“Scott-”

“ _I’m not going to die. Just… get down here_.”

“Yeah, I’m comin’. Just hang in there, ‘kay buddy? I’ll call you soon.” Wrenching open the Jeep’s door, Stiles vaulted inside, feet nearly tangling on the high step into the car. “Scott?”

“ _Yeah?_ ”

“Breathe.”

**…**

Stiles had to give his dad credit -- finding someone in the woods was incredibly difficult.

After parking his Jeep near the Hale house, and armed with a first aid kit and his phone’s flashlight, he’d immediately stumbled his way into the woods in search of a ditch. (He’d hoped that his usual luck would take over and he’d literally fall right into it. No go.) Ten minutes passed; nothing. After twenty minutes he started running shivering hands through what hair he had, forcing himself away from the edge of a nervous breakdown. Thirty minutes into his search his throat starting going raw from shouting. It was only when he tried to get back to his car did he realize he was horribly, horribly lost.

All the trees were beginning to look the same. Not in the broad sense of “it’s dark and I can’t see” same, but literally the same. Stiles squinted through the dark, taking a moment to marvel at how this tree, right in front of him, had the exact same markings as three other trees he had looked at in that very clearing. Three horizontal gashes, with a small branch to the right.

Somewhere off to the side there was the quiet shuffling of fabric.

Stiles nearly fell over in his haste to turn, feet twisting and threatening to lose balance. “Scott?” he rasped. He cleared his voice and tried again. “Scott, where are you?”

“You seem lost, young man.”

The boy jumped, slipping on a patch of wet leaves in his surprise and falling to the ground in a slightly damp pile. His neck craned as he tried to get a look at who had spoken.

The voice came again. “Is everything alright?”

Glancing up, Stiles was surprised to find an elderly man high in one of the trees, smiling down at him with an amused twinkle in his eye. All the teen could really make out of him was that he was wearing a long red scarf. The rest was obscured in the dark.

Scrambling to his feet, Stiles called out, “Have you seen a kid pass by here? He’s about my age. Latino. Possibly limping?”

The man made a humming sound. “Yes, I do believe I saw someone like that a while ago,” he mused quietly. “He seemed to be in quite the hurry.”

Relief flooded Stiles. He couldn’t believe his luck! “Great! Can you tell me what direction he went?”

“You should head that way.” An old, thin arm stretched out to gesture behind Stiles. The fingers were thin, and gnarled like a tree’s at the knuckles. “You may be able to find something.”

Stiles’ entire body pivoted so he could look. It looked like any other direction. Actually, it looked a bit more ominous than any other way. But it was where Scott was, and that was what mattered. “Thanks-” he began, turning back to look at the old man, only to have his gratitude die on his lips. Where the old man had been there wasn’t so much as a hint he had been there.

There wasn’t even a tree.

“Okay, Stiles, you can either wander around aimlessly or follow the directions of a hallucination,” the boy mumbled to himself. He glanced down at his phone, carefully eyeing the little clock that spouted 11:58 in the corner. His father would be home soon. “Do you really want to listen to the voices in your head?”

If it meant helping Scott, he did. He honestly did.

Spinning back around, he started forward, calling Scott’s name. The change was almost instant. The trees started looking different again, and the forest even seemed to get lighter. And as Stiles barrelled through the woods, calling for his friend every so often, his eyes caught on something in the trees. A light -- small, but significant -- glimmering between the trees far in front of him. Was it a car? A flashlight?

A fire?

He broke into a jog, carefully maneuvering around a patch of ferns. “Scott?” he called, hoping it was miraculously the boy’s phone. But as he squeezed between two trees on his approach he realized it was all for nothing. The light wasn’t anything close to Scott’s phone. Instead it was a large flower winding around a fern. The petals were wide, and glowed brilliantly in the darkness, leaving Stiles disappointed and somewhat confused. Did they have bioluminescent flowers in California?

Did bioluminescent flowers even exist?

“Anyone there?”

Stiles flinched, nearly giving himself whiplash as he spun towards the noise. “Scott?” he called back, flower forgotten. “Scott are you there?”

The boy groaned. “Down here!”

“Coming, coming!” Following the weak sound of his friend’s voice, Stiles stepped out from behind the circle of trees and promptly fell down a hill, letting loose a high pitched and terribly emasculating squeak as his balance promptly abandoned him. He’s knees were the first thing to give out, and he curled himself in a ball almost on instinct as he rolled into the ditch.

“You okay?” Scott asked after the boy had landed hard at the bottom.

Stiles nodded weakly, pulling himself together. His hands searched blindly for where the first aid kit had fallen. “Yeah, fine. I’m fine.” Stumbling across his phone first, he triggered the flashlight and swept it over the ground. The first aid kit was still halfway up the hill, sitting innocently, thankfully closed, against a large branch. Standing shakily, he ran up the hill and grabbed it before stepping over to where his friend was laid out flat along the bottom of the ditch. “Okay, dude, where did it bite you?”

With some difficulty, Scott reached down and peeled his shirt up from his stomach.

The younger boy groaned, turning away with a pinched expression and a moan. “Oh my god.” He gripped at his stomach. After a short heaving noise he ground out, “That is _disgusting_.”

“Can you pull yourself together, please? I _kinda_ need your help,” the latino boy drawled sarcastically.

“Yeah. Just give me a second, okay? That looks _really gross_.”

“ _Stiles!_ ”

The boy jumped. “On it.” Setting the first aid kit beside his friend, he unlatched the side and flipped the lid up. “When treating a large would, disinfect the area first, then cover it with a sterile bandage and follow with a wrap,” he muttered to himself, grabbing for the alcohol wipes. He wished he had some cotton balls. Tearing open the small packet, he carefully unfolded the wipe and settled it against the side of the wound.

Scott hissed. “Dude, be gentle!”

“I’m sorry, but do I look like a registered nurse to you?”

Scott went quiet at this.

“Thank you,” Stiles grumbled, turning back to the wound. With his phone in his left hand and the wipe in his right, he skirted the edges before finally touched at one of the deep gouges in his friend’s stomach. “Oh my god,” he whimpered as his friend jerked and gasped. Stiles’ face contorted in disgusted fear as he retracted the tip of his finger from the latino boy’s stomach. “That’s not supposed to do that.”

“Get the rest, and do it fast,” Scott told him between clenched teeth. “I’m getting a little lightheaded.”

Stiles could only nod weakly as his friend turned on his side, giving him more access to the rest of the wound. The younger boy worked at this quickly, going through the kit’s entire stash of alcohol wipes before he carefully placed the largest sterile pad he had on the wound and wrapping it with gauze. Just as he finished there was a howl in the distance. They both looked up, alarmed.

“Did you hear that?”

Scott nodded weakly, voice cracking as he said, “Yeah. That was a wolf, wasn’t it? So it was a wolf that bit me?”

Stiles bit his lip. “Scott, just -- there aren’t any wolves in California.”

The older boy gave him a confused look, gingerly rising into a sitting position as Stiles packed away the first aid kit. “But that was a wolf howl.”

“I know that. Do you think I don’t know that? I’m just saying _there aren’t any wolves in California_.” Forcing the kit closed over the out of place bandage packs and oddly placed scissors, Stiles tucked it under his arm and stood quietly. His body posture was casual, but the shake in his hands gave him away. He stuffed his phone in his pocket with a grimace. “There haven’t been for years.”

Scott bit his lip, crying out as his friend bent down and helped him to his feet. He tried not to pay too much attention to the discomfort caused by the boy’s hand wrapped around his belt, twisting it and causing it to dig into his hip. “Can’t you be a bit more-”

“Not a nurse,” Stiles interrupted, knowing exactly where Scott was going with it. Practically dragging them both of them out of the ditch, the younger boy adjusted his grip of his friend’s belt. His phone chimed in his pocket.

“Isn’t that your dad’s ringtone?”

“Yes, Scott,” he drawled. “Yes it is.”

It was a long while before they found the path, then the road, and finally the Jeep. The whole way Stiles’ phone blew up with texts and phone calls from his dad. He didn’t dare take it out of his pocket and check what it said. He already knew.

When he finally helped Scott into the car and began the long drive home, Stiles glanced over at the bloodied outline of the wound on his friend’s shirt with a grimace. “You know, maybe we should go to the hospital.”

“And what? Get arrested for drug use?” Scott scoffed.

“Your mom’s eventually going to see that,” the younger boy pointed out. He scanned the road before throwing his friend a quick meaningful look. “And if you don’t tell her she’s going to ask why you didn’t go get it checked out.”

The older boy shook his head. “She won’t see it. Mom’s got night shifts every day this week.”

“Yeah, but-”

“If worse comes to worse I’ll ask Deaton if he has any spare antibiotics.”

Keeping his eyes on the road, Stiles shot off a small and obvious, “Deaton’s a veterinarian.”

“Antibiotics are antibiotics.”

**…**

After dropping Scott off at home, Stiles had driven home on what felt like a bed of nails. He was tired. He was hungry. He had really bad cottonmouth and his throat hurt from screaming. And above it all, he had no doubt that his father was in the living room waiting for him to get home with a disappointed scowl and a extensive list detailing the particular terms of his grounding.

His summer wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to get high and then get grounded. Stiles and Scott had come to the understanding that something would get done before school started; something like running in a marathon or learning far too much about some obscure topic or reading the dictionary. (Stiles was ten pages in and already wanted to rethink each and every life decision that had built until that point.) The weed had been an experiment -- something Greenberg had passed along on their last day of school.

“Try this,” Greenberg had said. “Your summer will be amazing.”

Stiles hadn’t really considered using the little baggie of weed he’d been handed during his last English class of Freshman year. Not until he’d had a moment of weakness between “aid” and “aide.” To think -- if he’d actually made it to “apricot” he would have put the dictionary away, played some video games, and might have actually gotten to bed at a decent hour. Instead he’d foraged into the woods, gotten high, and nearly gotten his best friend killed.

Fucking Greenberg.

After a long time idling on the turn before his street, Stiles gave in and resigned himself to his fate. His phone was still blowing up in his pocket. The vibrations nearly made him jump every time he received a message as the intervals between calls grew longer and longer. But as he turned on to his street his phone went silent. And yet the only thing he was truly grateful for was that, as he turned into the driveway, his father didn’t bother rushing outside to meet him.

Parking neatly beside his father’s squad car, the teen didn’t bother putting off the inevitable and killed the engine without bothering to stall. He practically threw himself out of the car, closing the door quietly behind him before walking quickly into the house. The door flew open before he could sort through his keys.

“Where did you think you were, young man?”

Stiles froze, then glanced up at his father is disbelief. “Is that a trick question?”

His father gave him a look. A look that said he knew exactly where Stiles had been and what he had been doing.

“I was in the woods.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

Shifting from foot to food, Stiles shrugged animatedly. “If you know already why are you asking?”

His father was not amused. “Answer me or you’re grounded.”

“How many weeks, Dad?”

“Were you with Scott?”

“Scott’s at home.”

Reaching into his pocket, the sheriff retrieved a small post-it note with a sigh. “Unaccounted for upon my arrival home, subsequent inability to return calls or texts, and you return home smelling of a substance I’m pretty sure is illegal in all fifty states at this time. All accounted for, you’re looking at two months.”

Stiles nodded approvingly. “We’re going for a double sentence?”

Stepping to the side so his son could pass him, the sheriff sighed. “You’re under house arrest until August. Go to your room.”

“House arrest? That’s a little-” The boy cut off at his father’s expression, then grinned nervously. “Yup. Going to room. Straight to bed, do not pass go, do not collect-”

The sheriff cut him off with a firm hand closing the door. He raised a finger, motioning sternly toward the stairs. “Go.”

“Yup.” With this Stiles practically jumped through the living room and up the stairs, legs wobbly and mouth dry. Before long he was in the bathroom grabbing at his toothbrush with pursed lips. He attempted to make a popping noise with his lips, but found they were too dry. He fiddled with the toothpaste instead of trying again. It was when he looked into the mirror that he realized why his dad had grounded him so long.

His clothes were smeared with mud, as was his face, and there were even a few leaves stuck to his shirt. Not to mention his eyes, which were rimmed with so much red that for a moment he wondered if he’d put on eyeliner. Except he didn’t own eyeliner. Stiles had never figured himself the type to show that he’d been on drugs so soon. He knew it was different for everyone -- that some didn’t get cottonmouth and others got really bad headaches, and others didn’t have any side-effects at all -- but he’d barely taken two or three hits. Most of his evening had consisted of coughing. His lungs had even itched. Stiles had not gotten high, but it looked like he’d gotten absolutely smashed.

His father’s punishment suddenly seemed very lenient.

In Stiles’ pocket, his phone buzzed. Digging it out he found a message from Scott, along with about sixty from his father. Not bothering with his dad’s notes -- he already knew what they said anyway -- he went straight to Scott’s text.

_Everything okay?_

The boy sighed, tapping out a response.

_House arrest until August. He thinks you stayed home._

Scott’s reply was too fast to be casual. _I’m so sorry man._

Stiles grinned. _Don’t worry about it. Just make sure that bite doesn’t get infected, ok?_

Stepping back into his room, Stiles plugged his phone in to charge, tossed his clothes in the laundry hamper, and pulled on a T-shirt. He exhaled with a dark expression upon approaching his bed. It would be the closest thing to a physical friend he would have for a while. House arrest meant house arrest. No friends; no take-out; nothing but the internet for a month. With a stressed groan, Stiles collapsed onto his bed, falling asleep the moment his face hit the pillow.

Barely two days into Summer vacation and he was already grounded.

It was just not his night.


	2. Panic in its Purest Form Part 2

Scott was usually an uncommonly responsible kid. Despite the fact that his father was essentially MIA, and his mom was almost always at work, he’d grown up with a good head on his shoulders and a knack for keeping out of trouble. He’d even managed to land a part-time volunteer position at the local veterinary office despite being fifteen. (There had been quite a bit of paperwork, and an unusual amount of begging, to pull that off.) Least to say, it wasn’t normal for him to show up late for work.

The bite, though? It hurt. It kept him up until almost three in the morning, and knocked him out until nearly ten minutes into his shift. Which was why, not half an hour later -- a good twenty minutes into his actual shift -- his boss approached with a soft smile. “Is everything okay, Scott? You’re not usually late.”

“What? No -- yes. I’m fine. Just had some issues getting to sleep last night.”

The man smiled, setting a hand on the boy’s shoulder before fixing him with a stern look. “If you need to take a personal day you can.”

Scott shook his head adamantly, hair flying from side to side. He fought the urge to clutch at his side, which seemed to catch on fire from the simple movement. “I don’t need a personal day, sir. Everything’s fine.”

Deaton gave him a long look before relenting. “If you say so.”

Gathering a rag and a bottle of cleaning fluid, along with some newspapers and a squirt bottle, Scott carefully balanced everything in his arms and made his way over to the room they had for holding cats. Leaving the door open behind him, he set everything down carefully before turning to the nearest cage. He unlatched it with a grin. “C’mere, kitty,” he beckoned, wiggling his fingers invitingly to the small kitten inside. It nuzzled against his hands as he pulled it out. He turned to place it in the small tub they kept to temporarily relocate animals only to pause.

“Crap,” he muttered, glancing around carefully. He almost groaned upon spotting it through the door’s window. It was in Deaton’s office. Settling the kitten back in his cage, Scott went to push the door open, only to freeze as the front entrance flew open and Stiles’ father strode into the office. Without really thinking, the boy slid to the linoleum, crossing his legs and flattening his back against one of the cages. _Please don’t ask to see me_ , he hoped quietly. One look at Scott would be all the Sheriff needed to figure out Scott was in those woods, too. No doubt about it.

“Sheriff Stilinski,” Deaton greeted curiously, approaching the wooden barrier at the front of his office. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The Sheriff sighed. “I’m not technically supposed to be down here, but we’ve got a weird call about an animal attack, and I wanted your opinion on it.”

“A weird call?”

“Yeah. At first glance it looks like a bunch of kids -- actually, I think it’s best you take a look for yourself.”

Deaton’s eyebrows rose. “You have it with you?”

Nodding once, the Sheriff motioned behind him with his thumb. “Just outside. Can you step away for a moment?”

“Yes, of course.” Turning toward the back room, the vet called, “Scott, I’m stepping out for a moment.”

Scott bit his lip, glancing from cat to cat and trying not to panic. “Okay,” he called back after a second. He remained still, listening carefully as Deaton and the Sheriff made their way out of the clinic. When the shop was quiet he peeked around the door.

Good to go.

Sneaking out of the back room as quietly as he could, he took wide, low steps forward, sneaking behind the main desk. He threw another suspicious glance towards the front doors. Still clear. He grinned, then tip-toed the last few feet until he was directly beside the transfer tub, which he snatched with eager hands before sprinting as quickly as his side would let him into the back room. Just as he set the tub down the men came back into the clinic.

“-can hobble its prey, tearing at the ankles until they can no longer run. In this situation it doesn’t seem to be used for hunting, but for sport.”

The Sheriff sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

Deaton sighed. “I’m a veterinarian, Mr. Stilinski. My opinion is not necessarily the most accurate.”

“And what is your opinion, Alan?”

The dark-skinned man exhaled heavily through his nose. “To be honest, those marks look more like the work of a wolf.”

Scott froze, hands halfway in the kitten’s cage. He fumbled for his phone, carefully sliding the cage door shut. He brought up IM, sending off a message to Stiles. _Deer mauled in woods last night. Might be work of wolf._

The response was almost immediate. Stiles must have been bored. _No wolves in California, dude._

_I know, but Deaton says that’s what it looks like._

_It was probably a mountain lion._

Out in the office, Deaton smiled reassuringly at the Sheriff. “Don’t worry about it too much. It was probably just a mountain lion.”

“And the spiral?”

The vet shrugged. “Kids these days have a twisted sense of humor.”

Exhaling slowly, Sheriff Stilinski rest his hands against his hips and drawled, “Ain’t that the truth.” Turning carefully to take in the rest of the office, he faced Deaton with a half-grin and nodded once. “Thanks for your help, Doc.”

Alan met his eyes calmly. “I’m glad to have been of service.”

Scott winced as his head suddenly throbbed. A sharp pressure resonated at his temple, sending shocks of pain all through the right side of his face. It burned and burned until the boy was gasping on the floor, hands pressed desperately against his cheek and forehead in an attempt to relieve some of the pain. Before long there was someone pulling at the sleeves of his shirt and a soft voice calling for his attention. All at once the throbbing ceased, leaving Scott somewhat clear-headed, if wheezing desperately.

“-think you should probably go to the hospital,” Deaton was telling him. “Would you like me to call your mother?”

Shaking his head quickly, Scott politely pushed the man away with one hand as he rose to his feet. He glanced out the door; the Sheriff was already gone. “Don’t call Mom. It’s just… a migraine. It’s probably just from not sleeping well last night.”

“The majority of migraines start on the left side, and don’t result in nosebleeds,” his boss pointed out, offering the boy a tissue.

Scott eyed the man oddly. “Nosebleed?” he mumbled, touching his upper lip casually. Panic set in as it came away wet. “I-”

Deaton forced to tissue into his hand, then placed a hand under the boy’s arm to guide him out of the back room. “Do you have someone who can take you to the hospital?”

“Stiles,” Scott answered automatically before he knew what he was saying. He didn’t bother to correct himself as his boss nodded approvingly.

“Take a seat and calm down. Is his number in your phone?”

Nodding carefully with the tissue pressed against the underside of his nose, the boy allowed himself to be lead to one of the seats in the office’s foyer. He dug his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it quickly with his thumb and handing it over to his boss.

The man scrolled through Scott’s contact list for a bit before dialing. He fixed his attention on his shoes as the phone rang twice and Stiles picked up.

“ _What's up, Scotty-do?_ ”

Deaton’s posture changed to something a bit more casual as his attention shifted to one of the frames on the wall. “Mr. Stilinski. Good afternoon. This is Alan Deaton, Scott’s boss. We were wondering if you could pick Scott up and take him to the hospital.”

“ _Yeah, sure, no problem. I mean, I’m kinda grounded, but I’m guessing this counts as an emergency. What’s going on?_ ”

“If you’re grounded-”

“ _No, no, it’s fine. Dad will understand. Probably. So, see you soon?_ ”

“At your soonest convenience, if possible.”

“ _I’ll be there in ten. See you when I see you_.”

Deaton gave a short farewell. There was a short click and the line went dead.

Handing the phone back to Scott, Deaton grinned. “He’s on his way here. Would you like to wait here in the lobby or outside?”

“You’re kind of the greatest boss ever, you know that?” the boy observed instead of answering, looking up at the man around the tissue.

Deaton grinned. “Part of knowing how to be a good boss is knowing when not to be.”

**…**

When Stiles arrived at the Vet’s office a good fifteen minutes later he was looking every which way, as if expecting his father to pop out of nowhere and send him home. Scott almost laughed at the sight.

“Sorry it took so long. My shoes went… missing... Everything okay?” Stiles began as a joke, approaching his friend with a confused grin. He paused mid-step, nearly falling over as he looked upon the sight with wide eyes. “Shit, are you okay?” His hand hovered around his stomach before it dropped. For a long moment he looked completely at a loss as to what he was supposed to do about the wad of blood-darkened tissues beneath the older boy’s nose. He shook his head forcefully, as if to clear it. “Wow, um, get in the car. Now. That does not look good.”

Scott broke into a crooked grin as Deaton urged him forward with a hand.

“Drive safe,” the Vet wished them.

“Really? ‘Cause, you know, I was kind of hoping to wrap myself around a tree,” Stiles suggested, earning himself a scolding look from the man. “Right, yeah. Bad time for sarcasm. We, uh…” He paused, raising a hand in lieu of a goodbye as he walked backwards back toward his Jeep and wrenched open the passenger-side door for his friend.

“Could you be any more awkward?” Scott teased when they were both in the car, pulling out of the lot after Stiles had packed the older boy’s bicycle in the back seat.

Stiles nodded eagerly. “Yup. It could have been much, much worse. And hey -- didn’t you say something about getting antibiotics from Deaton or something?”

The injured boy sighed. “Okay, so I didn’t actually have the guts to do it. So what?”

“So what?” Running a hand across his shaved head, the teen driving glanced quickly at the tissues wadded beneath his friend’s nose. “So what? You’re bleeding profusely from your nose is what. And, in case you hadn’t noticed, that looks like it’s been congealing inside you for years. It’s practically black.” He shivered. “This is going to haunt me for weeks, you know that?”

Scott laughed weakly, tapping a finger against the window in a slow, even patter. He frowned as, instead of taking a right towards his place the car went straight through the four-way intersection at the end of the Vet Office’s driveway. “Where are -- we’re not actually going to the hospital, are we?”

“Of course I’m not taking you to the hospital. If I remember last night correctly, you were the one who was _dead set_ against going. In fact, I’m pretty sure your exact words were…” Stiles paused, recalling what had been said the night before. “Well, you never actually said the words ‘no’ or ‘hospital,’ but it was definitely implied.”

“What are we going to do, then?”

“We? Oh, there is no ‘we.’ _You_ are going to lay down -- or, like, recline, you should seriously be reclining or something right now,” he scolded, throwing Scott’s straighter-than-he-would-like spine a disappointed scowl. “We’re headed to my place, where _you_ are going take some of the Amoxicillan I have left over from last year, and _I_ am going to spend the next six hours of my dad’s patrol time, and your officially imaginary shift at the Vet, looking up animal bites.”

Scott fixed his friend with a look. “Amoxicillan? Wasn’t that for your ear infection?”

“It was, but what were your words yesterday? Oh, yes, ‘antibiotics are antibiotics.’ Now lean back and shut up.”

“Didn’t that give you really bad diarrhea?”

“Dude, do I have to say it again? Recline the stupid seat, lean back, and shut up.”

“You have a horrible bedside manner.”

“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you?” Stiles’ hands flew from the steering wheel to his forehead, then to the space between him and Scott before finally snapping back to the steering wheel. He continued, enunciating every word slowly and carefully so his friend couldn’t possibly misunderstand. “I. Am. Not. A. Nurse!”

**…**

For all of Stiles’ Google-Fu abilities, the only reference they could find for “black nosebleed” was… Well, nothing. It was all about nosebleed treatment. Which would be all well and good if it were actually working. No matter how long Scott leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose the bleeding continued unhindered, as if to mock the towels they had gone through. (They’d eventually given up on towels and had him hunch forward in the bathtub.) What’s worse, animal bite information was oddly limited. Most of it pertained to domesticated pets like cats or dogs.

“Found anything yet?” Scott asked for what felt like the millionth time. His _legs_ were starting to get pruned.

“Sort of,” Stiles informs him quietly. “There’s this site where you can talk to a bite specialist via a chatroom. Get some answers from them.”

“You say that like there’s a downside,” the injured teen noted, fighting the urge to scratch the bandages wrapped around his torso. He instead tugged his swim trunks -- well, _Stiles_ swim trunks -- into a more comfortable position. Not much could be seen of his lower half as the water had long-since started to turn a murky red.

The younger boy bit his lip, tapping experimentally on his laptop before glancing over at the latino teen pruning in his bathtub. “It looks kinda seedy. Like, it’s just a chat room. No information on the site, no FAQ -- just a chat room.”

“What’s the site called?”

“Animal bite specialist dot org. And apparently the room only goes online from 6PM to 8PM Eastern Standard Time.”

“Well, how many hours are they ahead of us?”

“Three.”

Scott blinked. “So what time is it there?”

Stiles glanced at the clock on his laptop and sighed. “It’s about 4PM where they are.”

“Wait -- what time-”

“Get dressed fast.”

Scott quickly ducked forward, sloshing his face in the bath water to get most of the blood off his mouth and beneath his nose before quickly wiping himself down with a towel. Within minutes they had piled into Stiles’ Jeep and subsequently dropped Scott off at home with his bike and a thick wad of paper towels shoved under his nose. Thankfully the nosebleed seemed to have stopped on the way.

Finally.

As Stiles pulled back into his driveway he received a slew of texts from Scott informing him this if his mother asks, he’s home because of diarrhea. Which is technically true.

**…**

Stiles tried not to be too awkward when his father got home. Which was a lot easier than it should have been because said parental unit wouldn’t so much as look at him. Halfway through an early dinner the teen snapped. “Dad, seriously, it could have been a lot worse!”

“I know it could be worse, which is why you’re grounded,” the man informed him evenly, eyes trained on his salad. “If any of the deputies had found you there’s a good chance you’d be in Juvie right now.”

“It would have been an infraction, Dad, not a misdemeanor. Legally speaking, it would have been worse if I had alcohol.”

“It’s still enough to get your fined.”

“Not enough to put me away, though.”

The Sheriff’s cutlery clattered against his plate as he set them down, folding his hands and looking up at his son, obviously disappointed. “Who did you get it from, Stiles.”

“No one.” He wasn’t lying. Greenberg wasn’t anyone really of note. It was _Greenberg_.

“So what?” Mr. Stilinski’s expression hardened. “You just magically managed to pull an illegal substance out of thin air? I find that hard to believe.”

“Dad, it’s not a big deal!”

“It is a big deal, Stiles. So either stop or be more careful about it.”

The teen’s jaw went slack at this. For a moment he was convinced, completely convinced, that he’d heard his father wrong. “Did you just tell me to break the law _better_?”

“I just don’t want you in trouble with the law, son. You understand that, right?”

Stiles nodded dumbly, head bobbing slowly to an invisible beat in his head as he admitted, “Yes and no?”

His father sighed. “Look, I was a teenager once. I’m not going to say I was a good kid all the time, because you wouldn’t believe me even if I did. So all I want you to do is promise me you’ll keep out of trouble. Next time you want to get high, do it here and then get rid of the evidence. Can you do that for me?

The boy couldn’t quite believe his ears. After a moment of quiet contemplation he figured it would be better not to look a gift-horse in the mouth. “Yeah, sure. Totally doable.”

A short and awkward silence passed between them before the Sheriff asked, “So how was your first high?”

Stiles laughed. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t actually get high?”

His father frowned. “Then what were you doing?”

“Whoa, nothing like that. I was doing what you think I was doing, I just didn’t get high. Like…” He paused, thinking it over. “I got really bad cottonmouth and some paranoia, but it was nothing like how I was supposed to get.”

“Think that might have something to do with your Adderall?”

“Maybe but -- should you really be talking to me about this?”

The Sheriff laughed.

Stiles was so lost.

**…**

It was half past four when Stiles retreated upstairs after, an admittedly incredibly early, dinner. (His dad was tired, he’d just finished a long shift, and he wanted to go to bed. Was it so bad to eat early?) It was only after Stiles hopped on his computer and his tabs lit up that he realized what he had been supposed to be doing.

“Okay, so it’s 7:30 on the other side of the U.S. It’s not like the chat room will be flooded or anything,” he assured himself quietly, clicking through the rather shady website to get to the chat. For a moment the page went haywire, flashing a series of grays, whites, and blacks like he was rewinding a tape before he found himself staring at a blinking cursor.

Please decide on a username.

Hint: Keep it discreet.

Stiles rolled his eyes and typed in, as a joke, “ _FriendWasBitten_.”

_‘FriendWasBitten’ has entered the chat._

_FriendWasBitten: Anyone here?_

The user counter at the bottom of the screen claimed there was another person online, but they didn’t immediately reply. For a tense moment Stiles considered closing the tab altogether. But then his speakers loosed a loud notification noise, sending him scrambling for the volume control. He didn’t even remember turning those on.

_TheOtherRed: Present._

Grimacing, the teen switched his speakers completely off -- going as far as unplugging them from the wall -- before settling back in his chair to reply.

_FriendWasBitten: So how do we do this?_

_TheOtherRed: First we start with species. I’m assuming your friend was bitten by an animal. When was this, what was the setting, and what kind of animal was it?_

_FriendWasBitten: We didn’t actually see it. We were in the woods last night -- about midnight._

He waited for a moment before adding more.

_FriendWasBitten: We think it was a wolf, so maybe it was a mountain lion._

_TheOtherRed: How sure are you that it wasn’t a wolf?_

_FriendWasBitten: Very sure, but not sure at all._

_TheOtherRed: That doesn’t make much sense._

_FriendWasBitten: That’s kind of our problem._

_TheOtherRed: So the issue in most likely a carnivore, then. What are your friend’s symptoms?_

Stiles scoffed. Of course it was a carnivore. Why the hell would a deer bite someone?

_FriendWasBitten: Sudden migraines and nosebleeds._

_FriendWasBitten: How long do the nosebleeds last?_

_TheOtherRed: Hours._

There was a short pause. _Is this serious?_ Stiles wondered to himself, then scoffed. Of course it was serious. Scott had been bitten by a wild animal and was bleeding from his face.

_TheOtherRed: Have they been given antibiotics? And if so, what kind?_

_FriendWasBitten: Yeah. Give him some year old Amoxicillan._

_TheOtherRed: Results?_

_FriendWasBitten: His nosebleed stopped about three hours later, but now he has diarrhea._

Another short pause.

_TheOtherRed: There’s a good chance the antibiotics had no effect._

His eyes widened. “What?” he gasped, almost expecting whoever it was to reply.

At his bedroom door, his father knocked. He leaned into the room, shoulder against the door frame with a drawn expression. He had finally changed out of his uniform. “Stiles, I’m headed to bed. Make sure you take out the trash tonight, okay?”

The boy nodded distractedly without taking his eyes off the screen. “Yeah, sure,” he consented. “Goodnight.”

“Hey,” his father called, attempting to get his attention. “Would you look at me for a second?”

Reluctantly, Stiles tore his eyes from the computer. He took in his father’s relaxed posture; how his gaze was even and focused. And yet the man’s awkwardness seem to spill out of his skin in waves. He was a single father talking to his son. Stiles couldn’t expect much better. “Yeah, Dad?”

“You know why you were grounded, right?”

“About that-”

“I know you drove Scott home today,” the Sheriff informed him quickly, cutting the boy off. “Melissa just called to tell me you violated your terms, and I want to know if you know what it means to be grounded.”

“Yeah, Dad, I know,” Stiles told him honestly. “And that was an emergency.”

The Sheriff grinned. “I know, son. Good call. Just…” He made a face. “Try to avoid any more emergencies in the future, okay?”

“I will.”

They were quiet for a long moment before the Sheriff smiled. “Whelp, good night.”

“Night, Dad.” Stiles watched his father retreat out of the room, closing the door behind him. Finally, he turned back to the screen.

_TheOtherRed: He should keep taking them just in case, though._

_TheOtherRed: Are there any other symptoms?_

_TheOtherRed: Hello?_

_TheOtherRed: Are you still there?_

_TheOtherRed: Hello?_

_FriendWasBitten: Sorry, something came up. I’m back._

_TheOtherRed: It’s fine._

_TheOtherRed: This is going to sound strange, but it would be best to take a mountain-native tree branch, burn it, dissolve the ash in water, and have your friend drink it._

Stiles fixed the screen with a look. He was suddenly tempted to look for a hidden camera. Was this some big joke Scott was playing on him? No -- Scott wouldn’t horribly injure himself and plant a fake website just to get a rise out of him.

_FriendWasBitten: Why?_

_TheOtherRed: There’s a chemical that forms in the bark which is released more easily after reaching a boiling temperature._

_FriendWasBitten: You’re not just trying to get my friend to drink ash-y water? Or, like, get him sick?_

_TheOtherRed: Charcoal has been used to cleanse and purify for centuries._

The teen made a face at this, opened another tab for Google, and was surprised to find whoever was on the other end of the line wasn’t shitting him.

_FriendWasBitten: Touche. Could Redwood work?_

_TheOtherRed: Redwood is perfect, actually. Are you in California?_

Suddenly the boy was on edge. California? Redwoods grew everywhere; all over the United States. Why would they guess California?

He figured it would be best to lie.

_FriendWasBitten: No. Why?_

There was a long lull before Red replied; enough time for Stiles to doubt their words before they even came across.

_TheOtherRed: The Redwoods in that area produce a particularly fine ash. That’s all._

“Animal bite specialist, botanist, burner of trees -- what _can’t_ this guy do?” the boy drawled sarcastically, leaning back in his chair. He laid his wrists leisurely against the edge of his desk, dragging his laptop closer with the tips of his fingers before typing.

_FriendWasBitten: So I just mix some with some water and have him drink it?_

_TheOtherRed: About a tablespoon per glass, yes._

_TheOtherRed: And make sure he drinks a lot of water afterwards, too._

_FriendWasBitten: How much is a lot?_

He’d meant it as a joke, but his humor grew to panic when Red replied.

_TheOtherRed: As much as he’ll be able to keep down._

Glancing down at the clock, Stiles winced upon realizing the chat would close in two minutes.

_FriendWasBitten: Looks like it’s time for us to say goodbye._

_TheOtherRed: Looks like it._

The teen was about to log off, and had begun to turn away, but another message came too quickly.

_TheOtherRed: If there are any complications with your friend feel free to send me a text._

The next line was a number -- a New York number if Stiles knew anything about area codes. (Which he did due to an incredibly boring day in eighth grade.) As if on instinct he pressed “screenprint” and typed out a short reply.

_FriendWasBitten: Isn’t that a bit too personal? Can’t I just message you here?_

_Chat Offline._

Stiles nearly screamed as his screen went haywire, flashing a multitude of grays before he was booted back to the main section of the site. After calming a bit the boy pulled up Paint and copied the shot he’d gotten of the chat room. He quickly plugged the number into his phone. For a long time he sat quietly in his seat, staring at the screen, before firing off the message, _What kind of complications?_

He sat quietly, staring at his phone. He’d been doing an awful lot of that as of late; waiting. It wasn’t something he liked to do. Wasn’t something he was particularly good at. Within seconds his leg was jumping up at down, toes propelling it nervously from one side of his chair’s foot to the other before launching onto the leg itself and jerking to and fro. Stiles was practically vibrating. Nervous fingers played over the desktop, tapping out a pattern that changed with every beat. Seconds passed. Then minutes. And then finally, finally, his phone buzzed. He rushed to unlock it, finding himself staring down a reply that made his stomach clench painfully.

_Hallucinations._

_Then what? Do I bring him to the hospital?_ he typed quickly. Sending the text, Stiles dragged his teeth nervously along his bottom lip, agitating it until it began to swell and the skin threatened to break open. He almost jumped when the reply came.

_You might have to._

“Well, you’re optimistic, aren’t you?” he breathed. Taking a moment to himself, he rose from the computer chair and flopped on to his bed. He waited a while before renaming the contact “Red” and saving it into his speed dial. It wasn’t like he had many numbers vying for the spot; just his Dad’s and Scott’s.

After a long while of breathing in the sweaty stench of teenager that refused to leave his pillow, Stiles dragged his phone up to his face and rest it against his ear as it dialed.

“ _Hey, dude_.” Scott’s voice was both drained and excited. “ _Any news?_ ”

“You might start hallucinating,” the boy bit out around his pillow. “And you need to swallow a tree.”

The silence was nearly palpable.

“ _What?_ ”

Grabbing the phone, Stiles rolled on to his back and sighed. “I wish I was kidding, dude. Apparently there’s this chemical in redwood trees that, like, matures after you burn it. We mix a tablespoon of the ashes with water, have you drink it, and apparently that’s supposed to help.”

“ _Were you talking to a witch doctor or something?_ ”

“Haven’t the faintest.”

Scott sighed. “ _Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt, right? Mom did that charcoal thing a while back and kept singing it praises. That cleanse thing._ ”

“Oh, right -- you guys didn’t have any popcorn on movie night, but she loaded up on celery and carrots.”

“ _You would remember that._ ” The boy on the other end of the line laughed, though it sounded somewhat miserable. In the background a toilet flushed. After the sound faded he asked, “So what else did they say?”

Stiles bit his lip before admitting, “They might have mentioned hallucinations.”

Another pause.

“ _Oh shit._ ”

“What?” the younger boy squeaked, shooting up so fast he had to anchor his hands against his knees to stop himself from falling over. “Are you already having them?”

“ _No, nothing like that. It’s just -- what do we do if I start?_ ”

He winced. “The hospital may or may not have been mentioned.”

There was a long, slow inhale followed by a short exhale and clicking noise. “ _We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, I guess_.”

Stiles phone buzzed, signalling a text message. He ignored it. “So, hey, any news on that Rena chick you were crushing on?”

“ _Nah. She and I kind of lost contact. Besides, it wasn’t like I was super invested in her or anything. It’s not like she was the one._ ”

“Scott, for the last time, there’s no such thing as love at first sight.”

“ _Nonbeliever_ ,” the older boy accused. They both laughed for a bit at this. “ _She’s out there, though. Somewhere out there is the perfect girl and I’m going to meet her and I’ll just know._ ”

“If only you were so lucky.”

“ _It’ll happen. I know it._ ”

“You’re a hopeless romantic and it’s going to get you hurt some day.”

“ _Bye, Stiles._ ”

“ _Good luck with Ms. Perfect._ ”

They hung up sporting amiable grins and laughing quietly, Scott going back to his squatting and Stiles checking the text he’d received from Red.

_Have there been any wolf sightings where you live?_

Stiles frowned before replying, fingers hovering over the keys before telling them honestly, _I live in California._

No reply came after this. No acknowledgement that he had admitted to lying in the chatroom. No comment about how there weren’t any wolves in California so of course there weren’t any. Not even a solitary “ _ah_ ” in reply. The conversation had ended; the ball was in Stiles’ court. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone says anything, I googled the living shit out of whether or not ingesting tree ash would actually make someone sick. The results? Nothing. Google, Ask, Bing, Yahoo, Web MD -- they all failed me. (Although I imagine it can’t be worse than eating a burned marshmallow.) On a more valid note, I’ll be updating this story on Tuesdays. I’m calling it “Technical Tuesdays.” (It's Tumblr Tag is "NQTD.") See you all next week!


	3. Full Moon Sway

Both boys hadn’t known that to expect over the following three weeks, but they passed without much event. Scott’s nosebleeds came at night, or when his mother was a work, and Stiles continued to look up possible infections Scott could have. There were no more strange headaches, no word about slaughtered animals aside from the first deer, and no more unusual texts on Stiles’ end. It was like their lives had gone back to something akin to normal. The wound had even healed, though it had left a nasty scab that wouldn’t quite heal into a scar. Stiles figured it was all over, so he didn’t think it was some horrible premonition when his pocket buzzed during the opening sequence of the 1990 Captain America. He’d pulled out his phone, intending to just check who it was from, but the message was short and already displayed on the screen.

_How’s your friend holding up?_

Stiles stared at the text for a long moment, completely missing Scott’s concerned look as he paused the movie and turned to him.

“Everything okay?”

Stiles’ eyebrows rose as he made a face. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“Because usually you kick my ass for looking away at this part.” Waving his arm towards the movie, Scott bit his lip and shifted on the couch to  better face the younger boy. “What’s up?”

Stiles’ phone buzzed again, and he automatically clicked to see the whole message.

_If he has hallucinations tonight DO NOT bring him to the Hospital._

Just as the boys finished reading the phone buzzed again, and another line filled the screen.

_Also, do not bring him to the authorities if he is suddenly violent._

“Woah, that’s ominous,” the latino boy commented, peering over his friend’s shoulder.

“No shit,” Stiles drawled, eyebrows rising. He turned to the older boy with a cheeky grin. “So, you feeling the urge to kill and maim?”

Scott chuckled, easing back into his seat with a grin as he waved his friend off. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Really? ‘Cause I could go for some deer venison right now. Or whatever deer is called.”

“Dude, seriously?”

“Yeah. We can go out into the woods and you can your disease-y superpowers to catch a deer with your teeth. Then I can paint swastikas and Satanic star-things all over the woods in red paint. It’ll be fun.”

Scott tried not to imagine it. He really didn’t. But as soon as Stiles got to “swastikas” he cracked up, imagining his friend putting the “finishing touches” on a tree while he was panting like a puppy over a vague caricature of a deer. “You’re crazy?”

“You say this like it’s _news_.”

“Crazy.”

“I personally prefer the term ‘lunatic.’ Although I’m saving up to be ‘eccentric.’ I’m not gonna lie, though -- it’s taking a while.”

They shared a laugh before turning back to look at the TV, Scott hitting play on the remote just as Stiles pulled his phone out to check the message he’d missed.

_Has he been having nightmares?_

Stiles rolled his eyes, then typed back a response.

He doesn’t dream.

Stowing his phone back in his pocket, he considered turning it off until Scott asked, “What’d they ask this time?”

Stiles shrugged. “If you were having nightmares. I mean, even if you were having nightmares it’d be from the trauma of being bitten by a wild animal, you know?”

The older boy went pale.

Fixing his friend with narrowed eyes, Stiles licked his lips pensively before reaching for the remote. Much to his own disappointment, he paused the movie. “Scott,” he began slowly, adjusting himself on the couch -- _again_ \-- to face his friend. They weren’t going to finish the movie, it seemed. “Is there something you haven’t told me?”

“I didn’t -- I didn’t think they were anything. I’ve just been having these… _nightmares_ , I guess. They’re pretty freaky.” Leaning back against the couch, Scott kept his eyes on the TV. His mind was racing, recalling images of a purple flower being drawn out from beneath his skin and fire, fire, _so much fire_. He drew a hand along the arm of the sofa, attempting to focus on something else. “Can you ask them what it’s a side effect for? What to do?”

Stiles nodded eagerly, digging into his pocket for his phone again before typing in a message. He’s been having nightmares. Fire and purple flowers. Thoughts?

They waited, eyes on the phone in the younger boy’s hands, for it the reply to come.

I’m going to be in California to visit a friend soon. Are you anywhere near a place called Beacon Hills?

**…**

It wasn’t that Stiles was nervous.

Okay, he was.

He was horribly nervous to meet the person who’d been asking him multiple questions online. Who did this, really? Met someone they barely knew from texts and weird chat rooms? Crazy people, probably. At least Stiles was actually crazy. Without his Adderall, anyway. Or on his crashes. Those were brutal.

They had agreed to meet in a diner downtown. That Stiles would order a burger and curly fries and wear a Captain America T-shirt, and they would have black hair and a leather jacket. At first he had delayed eating -- figuring that maybe they wouldn’t recognize him without the burger -- but after a while he figured it was silly. They were five minutes late, whoever they were, and he was not having cold fries. Cold fries were gross.

He had an entire handful of fries in his mouth by the time someone approached him; someone with a leather jacket, black hair, and a curious grin. “You’re ‘ _friendwasbitten_ ’?”

Stiles’ head shot up. It took a moment for him to realize what the woman beside his table was saying. “Your friend was bitten?” didn’t seem to make much sense. Where did that come from? Honestly? Was she part of a weird sex circle thing? But no, _no_. That’s when Stiles realized something very obvious. “Oh my god,” he mumbled to himself after swallowing down the bulk of the fries, looking up at the woman with wide eyes. “I totally did not realize that username could be used as a pun. I am 150% disappointed in myself right now.”

The woman laughed. “Shit, you’re right. I’m kind of disappointed in myself now, too.”

Huh, Stiles thought to himself. _She’s pretty cool_. The thought had nothing to do with her leather jacket and more to do with the fact that a member of the female portion of the species had just _agreed_ with him.

The woman settled into the seat opposite him, offering a hand for him to shake. “My name’s Laura.”

“Stiles,” he offered in reply, shaking it nervously. Wow, she was pretty. Gorgeous, really. Almost as much as Lydia.

She smiled. “So, your friend, he’s been having nightmares, right? Purple flowers and fire?”

The boy nodded eagerly. The need to please was rising in him against his will. It was a natural reflex he found most people had around attractive people; the desire to make them happy. To _keep_ them happy. To _impress_ them and make themselves noticed. Even his dad had a weakness to the occasional soccer mom he ran into at student-teacher conferences, not that the sheriff would ever admit it. And it rose in Stiles unchecked as he nodded eagerly, grinning stupidly.

Laura waved the waitress over and ordered, “My usual,” much to the confusion of the waitress. “Just tell the cook Laura’s here -- Betty still works here, right?”

The waitress nodded dumbly before sauntering off. Stiles recognized her from his Home Ec class the year before. Jessie. Jenny. Something with a J. He really should have paid attention to her name tag.

“So, Stiles. Stilinski, right? As in the Sheriff’s kid? You’re still using that nickname?” She laughed, scooting farther into the booth to lean her shoulder up against the window.

Stiles frowned. “Uh, sorry, do I -- do we know each other?”

The woman grinned, teeth straight, white, and perfect. “Oh, come on, you don’t recognize me?” She giggled, tilting her head to the side until it tapped against the glass. Her hair spilled over the windowsill, shining in the light streaking into the restaurant. “Don’t I look like someone who you used to follow around the playground like a little puppy whenever you thought he wasn’t looking?”

“I highly doubt Derek Hale is the type of person to get a sex change.”

Color flushed the woman’s face as she clamped her hands over her mouth in an attempt to restrain what Stiles could only assume was raucous, nearly uncontrollable laughter. Her entire body shook as a plate was set before her by the waitress -- _Jennifer, her name was Jennifer_ \-- who gave her a forced smile and a side-eye before she left. Laura pinched her nose as her laughter was reduced to giggles, then snickers. “What an image,” she wheezed, pulling her hands away. “No, he, uh -- I’m his sister, Laura Hale.”

Stiles glanced down at her plate.

It was made up entirely of curly fries.

Stiles may or may not have been in love.

“So when you said you were visiting a friend-”

“The vet, Deaton,” she supplied immediately. “He and my family go way back.”

The boy nodded his recognition. “So, uh, what did you want to talk about?”

“Your friend,” she told him, chomping down on a fry with a large grin. “You don’t really volunteer a lot of information about him. I just wanted to make sure he was okay. That he wasn’t getting in too much trouble with the bite and that he healed right. I would have come earlier, before the full moon, but my brother is so stingy with his car sometimes.”

Stiles frowned. “The full moon? What does that have to do with anything?” He took this moment to finish off the last of his curly fries before they could get cold, then eyed her plate with envy.

Laura laughed.

The boy blinked. _Was that a test or something?_ he wondered, watching her throw her head back and her hair fall around her shoulders in dark, attractive lines. “Look, I kinda don’t have all day, okay? If any of the deputees see me out and about my dad’s going to have my head.”

“You’re grounded, aren’t you?” She laughed again. “And you snuck out? Oh my god, you’re what? Fifteen? That is so cute.”

Stiles didn’t want to take this as an insult, but it kind of was so he just made a face. He was not cute. At least, not in the way she had said it, like he was precious and adorable in a way that was most definitely 10,000% platonic. Yeah, she was like ten years older than him, but a guy could dream, couldn’t he? “Yeah, I’m grounded. So if-”

That’s when his phone rang.

**…**

It had been a while since Scott had a really bad asthma attack. Months. Nearly a year. It wasn’t something he really concerned himself with any more. Best not to worry about something that wasn’t likely to happen.

Except it was happening.

Scott hadn’t forgotten the warning about hallucinations. It had been on his mind almost constantly since Stiles had received the text about them, so he didn’t panic when he’d felt something tickling in his nose halfway through a shower and pulled out a clump of flowers. He looked at it with morbid curiosity before reaching to turn the water off. The boy settled down into the tub, prepared to wait the illusion out, however long it would take.

But then it got hard to breath.

He coughed, attempting to clear his throat, and watched in shock as another clump of purple flowers jumped across the tub, landing near the drain with wet slap. Hands shaking with anticipation inched towards his face, fumbling over the plant that seemed to be growing out of his nose. Scott grabbed what he could and tugged. A piercing discomfort rolled through him at the motion as he gagged. For a moment it felt as though he’d inhaled glass into his lungs. It passed quickly.

Scott tugged again, trying to dislodge the plant that was growing quickly. This time the feeling didn’t pass. But that didn’t matter. The plant was in his eyes, petals brushing gently against his eyebrows as it grew upwards. He managed to get a few breathes around his gag reflex. Slowly he gasped, reminding himself over and over that it was only a hallucination. That it would pass. It would pass. _It would pass._

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe, but the roots were too deep. They scratched against his throat; filled his lungs like water. Again he tugged at them. This time they gave a bit, only to explode with growth beneath his fingers. The boy scrambled out of the tub, gasping as wheezing as his arm flailed for some sort of handhold as he stumbled out of the bathroom and down the hall.

Dread descended upon him like a hammer as he realized he didn’t know where he’d put his phone.

**…**

Everything was a blur.

“ _I can’t imagine... have it, but he’s very lucky… when he did._ ”

Everything and nothing hurt; a pulse of non-pain flooded every nerve every second.

“ _Charcoal has been used for… treat aconite poisoning._ ”

Was that a doctor? It sounded like a doctor.

“ _... mom’s a… probably picked it… her._ ”

Stiles. That was Stiles.

“ _Scott… walk... in the woods. He... I don’t know…  then realized what it was?_ ”

Scott tried to focus, but everything felt too raw and too blunt all at once. His lungs felt empty, but full, and were incredibly sore. The world seemed to fade in and out in splotches of white and black, his vision going sharp and dull in strange intervals that he could only assume was his heartbeat. It was the same beat as the non-pain that flooded him.

 _I can feel my blood_ , he realized.

After a while the world started to make more sense. There was his mom and Stiles at the end of the bed talking with a man in a white lab coat. A doctor, a voice in his held helpfully supplied. _Huh_ , he wondered to himself. _I’m hearing things, now._

Except he wasn’t. Everyone had reacted to the noise, and the boy in this hospital bed realized he’d said it out loud. His mother was at his side immediately.

“Scott,” she whispered, settling in the seat to his left. “How are you feeling?”

“Terrible,” he wheezed, propping himself up on his elbows. “How long was I out?”

“Just a few hours,” Mrs. McCall informed him. “Stiles was able to get a dispatch out to you pretty quick.”

“Stiles is grounded,” Scott barely mumbled. Was he on pain meds? It felt like he was on pain meds.

His mother nodded. “Yes, and later we’re going to have a long chat about who you’re supposed to call when you’re having a medical emergency, but for now you should get some rest, okay?”

Scott didn’t remember much of what happened after that. Stiles had made a big fuss about something or other, and the doctor had looked uncomfortable with the ADHD boy in the room, and Melissa said something about going into the hallway. Nothing much of note. He allowed reality to fade away and collapsed back on his pillows, content just to sleep.

**…**

Three hours later, Scott snorted awake when a perfectly manicured fingernail pressed sharply against his cheek. The boy grimaced. Was that drool he was laying in?

The woman at his bedside grinned. “Hi there, Scott. I’m Laura -- Laura Hale.”

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned. “Your bedside manner needs some work, lady. And aren’t visiting hours over?” The boy glanced out the window, and it was indeed dark out. But was it after nine? He glanced at the clock.

It was nearly eleven.

“They are, but Stiles figured I should see you before the end of today.”

Scott frowned, easing up onto his pillows so he could look the woman in the eye. “You’re the animal bite specialist?”

“Yes.”

“I thought…”

“What?”

He shrugged. “I just thought you’d be a guy.”

The woman laughed. “Not everyone on the internet is a 30 year old man.”

“Hey, you never know.”

Laura snickered, pursed her lips, then licked them. “So, asthma attack and aconite poisoning, huh? That’s one hell of a double whammy. Any idea where you got the aconite from?”

The boy shook his head, adjusting his posture when his back began to hurt. “I don’t even know what aconite is?”

“It’s a plant,” she informed him quietly. “Its most noticeable features are its long, thin roots and purple flowers. Incredibly poisonous. Usually it’s found in mountainous areas, but occasionally it pops up in other areas due to migrating inhabitants.”

Scott made an impressed noise. “Wow. Are you a botanist, too?”

The woman shook her head. “No. I’ve just run into the issue a few times before now.”

A silence settled between them as the boy nodded slowly, mulling over her words before changing the subject. “It was a hallucination that triggered my asthma attack.”

“I know.”

“I thought it was growing out of my throat.”

Laura smiled wryly. “The hallucinations attack you where you’re most vulnerable. It’s a psychological reaction. For some it’s where they were scratched or bitten. Others from an injury that crippled them.”

“So it grows out of my lungs because I have asthma?”

“It grows out of your lungs because that’s the part of your body you fear most.”

“I’m not scared of my lungs.”

“No, you’re scared they’ll stop working.”

Scott sighed, sliding down into the pillows. Slowly, a frown pulled at his lips. “Hey, what did you mean by that? The ‘where they’re scratched or bitten’ part. Does this usually accompany an animal bite?”

“Some.”

“Then why did you say not to go to the hospital?”

The woman gave him a long, hard look, before uncrossing her legs and leaning forward. “Scott,” she began slowly, hand on her knees. “Please know before I say anything that you were lucky this time, but there’s a chance you won’t survive the next hallucination, which will be worse.”

“How do you know that?” Scott inquired innocently, reaching up to wipe away the drool dried to his face. He could feel it caked on, crunching with every facial expression. Gross. “I mean, I made it this far without any problems. It was only one…” He cleared his throat. “It was only one hallucination. And how do you know they’ll get worse, anyway?”

“Because they always get worse,” she tells him simply, gaze steady. “And seeing as you were bitten in my jurisdiction, that makes you my responsibility. If anything happens to you the packs will hold me responsible.”

“Packs? What are you talking about?”

She shook her head. “I can offer you a cure. A permanent cure to everything. The hallucinations, your asthma, genetic defects -- everything. But it comes with a price.”

“What’s going _on_?” he gasped. The world was getting smaller again. His throat was itching. Panic began to rise in him and _oh god it was happening again_.

“Just _listen_ , okay?” the woman hissed, eyes narrowing at the boy. She bit her lip as her head tilted, as if hearing something alarming. Despite this she continued. “Imagine for a second that you had another hallucination.”

“Sure.”

“And what if I could do something to stop it but paint a big fat target on your back and essentially ruin your life? Would you want me to do that?”

He started to choke. Would he? The first hallucination had nearly killed him. What would another one do?

“Would you want me to do that?” she insisted quietly, fishing for an answer.

Scott nodded weakly, not knowing how to talk around the lump in his throat.

“Scott, I need you to -- Scott, are you okay?”

The boy grabbed at his throat. It just wouldn’t clear. Can’t breathe. He attempted to mouth this to her, but there they were again; the purple flowers sprouting from his throat.

“Scott are you having an attack _right now_?”

He nodded weakly, panicking when he took hold of his hand and dragged it away from his face.

A small prick of pain blossomed in his left pointer finger before lips were pressed against his ear, breath tickling the shell in a way he would usually consider sexual simply due to proximity. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” Laura whispered, voice calm and even. “The rest is up to you.”

Within seconds after she left a nurse was at his side, and before long he could breathe again.

**...**

Scott woke feeling better than he ever had before. His lungs were clear, his skin felt _fresh_ , and -- most surprising of all -- he wasn’t all groggy from pain medication. Everything was so _sharp_ , though. He could smell the commercial disinfectant and laundry detergent the hospital used, and his own unwashed musk was sharp and almost painful. Someone was screaming, someone else was yelling, and it was like everything was going on at once.

At his side was Laura, who looked down at him with a sweet smile and a bag of… It smelled like his mom’s laundry soap.

“Welcome to the pack,” she said, holding out a pair of ear plugs and the bag for him to take.

**…**

“-and it’s been a whole month with _no word from you_ , so if you could _call_ me-”

“Stiles.”

“What?” The boy stopped pacing to look at his father in the doorway.

Heaving a short sigh, the man made a motion to the phone in his son’s hand. “Keep it down, okay?”

Stiles hung up. “Scott’s not picking up his phone.”

“He’s still recovering,” his father hissed. “Scott’s taken longer to recover from an attack before.”

“Yeah, but at least then he would pick up his phone! You know, _talk to his only friend in the world_.”

“There’s no way that boy only has one friend.”

Stiles shrugged. “I only have one friend.”

“Stiles, Scott is-” He trailed off.

“No, no, go on. Scott is?” the boy prompted scathingly. “Well adjusted?” he suggested. “Attractive? Fun to be around?”

“If you’re trying to guilt me into letting you out of your grounding early, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Dad, can you just let me drive over there for a little bit? I’ve got, what, a week left on my sentence? I need to make sure he’s okay, okay? Half an hour; that’s all I’m asking.”

“No.”

“But-”

“No.”

**...**

“ _Dude, you won’t believe what I’ve been doing_ ,” Scott practically shouted over the phone just as Stiles hopped in his Jeep. His house arrest was finally, _finally_ , over.

“You sure as hell better have been in a dead zone for the last month,” Stiles snapped, setting his phone on the dash. “Because I tried to call you, like, a _million times_.”

“ _I know, I know, I’m sorry,_ ” his friend whined over the speakerphone. His voice was barely louder than the sound of the Jeep’s tires as Stiles pulled out of his driveway. “ _Laura and I just figured we’d get everything squared away without any distractions. She told me to think of you as a reward._ ”

“Oh, so I’m the same level as pudding, now?”

“ _The best pudding ever._ ”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “So what’s this thing you gotta tell me? Are you dating Laura or something?”

“ _First of all, gross. She’s like ten years older than us._ ”

“She’s still hot.” Stiles’ jaw popped as he dropped it to enunciate the “o” and growled the last word, making a biting motion with his teeth. He caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror and made kissy faces.

Scott groaned. “ _Second of all, I can’t tell you yet. You won’t believe me until you see it for yourself._ ”

“Did you get a PS3 or something? Because I feel the need to remind you we swore never to turn to the dark side. RPGs can consume your life, man.”

“ _No, I didn’t switch platforms. And I’m not at home, if that’s where you’re headed. I’m at the preserve._ ”

Stiles frowned as he paused at a stop sign before taking a left -- toward the preserve, not Scott’s place. “Why are you in the woods?”

“ _Just come, okay?_ ”

**…**

“So let me get this straight,” Stiles began, adjusting the bag of lacrosse gear he’s brought with him on his shoulder. Eyeing the older boy’s elongated ears and giant sideburns and glowing freaking eyes, the younger boy choked out, “You’re a werewolf?”

**...**

Laura was not pleased.

“I told you not to tell anyone!”

Laura was _definitely_ not pleased.

“I didn’t!” Scott defended weakly, cowering under the woman’s glare.

“What do you call this?” She waved a hand toward the enthusiastic Stiles, who had dropped the lacrosse gear to the ground after losing his balance in some horribly embarrassing manner but still managed to remain upright.

The older boy blinked, glancing between Stiles and the newly exasperated Laura. “Lacrosse practice?” he suggested.

Laura made a motion with her hand, clenched it in a fist, clenched her eyes shut, hung her head, and _visibly_ restrained her fury.

“I think she means you weren’t supposed to tell me,” Stiles drawled, planting his lacrosse stick in the ground and passing it back and forth between his hands. “I kind of count as a person. You know; technically. What with the flesh and stuff.”

Scott shrugged, turning back to the woman. “Stiles is my best friend. It was going to come out eventually.”

Laura pinched her nose and clenched her eyes shut in an attempt to process the boy’s thought process. It was then that she realized that turning him was possibly a very bad idea. A very, very bad idea that could easily result in… Oh, dear lord, she did not want to begin to imagine the trouble these boys could get into unchecked.

What had she done?

“So, Laura,” Stiles began, smirking in a way that made her incredibly uncomfortable. “You wanna play?”

**…**

She was only there to make sure Scott didn’t kill anyone. That was all.

The school year was finally kicking up, and Laura wasn’t at Lacrosse tryouts to cheer the boys on. Or to shout that he should really nail that Jackson kid in the face once or twice. Or that Stiles should watch his left. Or make an off comment that the goalie smelled really good. Whether or not all of these occurred was her business. She was only there to make sure Scott didn’t wolf out and kill anyone. That was all.

So what if she cheered them on? They were her pack. They would be part of her life no matter what, even if the decision she’d made had generally been stupid. Werewolves were bad enough. But a teen wolf? God help us all; it was a disaster waiting to happen.

“Yeah!” she screamed as Scott sent Jackson to the ground. “Number eleven! Number eleven!”

This earned her a cocky grin.

Laura smiled until Scott turned away, only to dig her phone out of her pocket as it began to ring. “Hey, this isn’t a good time right now-”

“ _When do you think you’ll be coming back?_ ”

She rolled her eyes at the man’s tone: angry, foreboding, generally pissed off. “Relax, Der. I can’t hang out in our hometown for a while?”

“ _It’s been two months and-_ ”

“If you complain about needing your car I’m going to laugh at you until you hang up on me,” she warned him. “We both know you don’t actually need it.”

“ _Laura,_ ” ‘Der’ warned, voice lowering dangerously. “ _You said you’d only be a week at most. Beacon Hills isn’t safe._ ”

“Yeah,” she agreed quietly, eyes immediately drawn to where Stiles had been body-checked into the grass. He was up before long, buzzed head weaving back and forth between players as he made his way to his starting position as the whistle was called. “That exactly why I have to stick around.”

“ _What happened?!_ ” the man shouted, words nearly blending completely together through the connection.

Laura drew the phone away from her ear with a wince. “Jesus Christ…”

“ _Are you…_ ” There was a thoughtful pause. “ _Are you at a high school game?_ ”

“Don’t be silly, Derek. The school year has barely started -- I’m at tryouts.” She laughed. “Although, I gotta admit, this coach is pretty weird. Lacrosse is a Spring sport, isn’t it? To my understanding they’re not even going to play until-”

The growl in his voice almost made him unintelligible as he demanded, “ _Did you turn someone?_ ”

She pursed her lips, nose wrinkling and eyes narrowing. “Maybe?”

“ _Damn it Laura!_ ”

“Hanging up now!”

“ _You-_ ”

Violently slamming her thumb down on the end call button, Laura shut the phone off and shoved it in her pocket. She would deal with that. Later, though. When she wasn’t in a crowd full of people she used to know beside the school she used to go to. It was just like old times, really, except it was Scott and Stiles on the field instead of Derek.

There were lots of things she could have been worrying about just then: Scott turning, Stiles getting injured, figuring out if there was any hunter activity in the area, finding the Omega that bit Scott -- but there, at the tryouts, she could pretend nothing was going on. She was six years younger, cheering a fifteen year old Derek on as he tried out for the football team, killing time until Baseball or Basketball season came around. When she drove home her parents would be there nagging her about her Math grade. Everyone would settle down for a family dinner before Peter said something weird and everyone started excusing themselves one by one. Cora would drop by before bed to ask her to “braid her hair like Pocahontas.” For a moment Laura could actually pretend that no one was dead.

So she did.


	4. Woman in the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles decides to use his new awareness of the supernatural to get Lydia's attention. And true to his status of "teenager" he both succeeds and fails miserably. Scott, meanwhile, watches his friend come into himself as his abilities begin to become more noticeable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, Teen Wolf Season One starts just after February, seeing as it’s Allison’s Birthday right off (which is March 19th.) This story, obviously, does not. Second, the last chapter ended with a Lacrosse Tryout scene. This was an honest mistake, seeing as Lacrosse and Cross Country are dual-season sports. But after a little digging, in Teen Wolf Lacrosse is a Spring sport. The scene was written a certain way so I can't change it to a Cross Country meeting, but doesn't Coach seem like the kind of guy to have Lacrosse warmups six months early? And third, this story started just after the end of their Freshman year, so many of the characters – such as Allison – won’t be making an appearance for a few more chapters. Stiles is still 15, and Scott turns 16 in this chapter.

September brought crisp wind, overcast skies, amber leaves littering the streets, and Stiles barreling through Laura's wide open front door with a handful of printer sheets and a manic grin.

“I've figured it ale – all, _all_ – out,” he told her quickly, stumbling over his words in his haste to speak. A bit more confidently, the boy brandished the printer sheets above his head like he were going to war. “Beacon hills is _full_ of shit.”

Only slightly amused, Laura spun away from her computer – where she  _had_ been working, thank you very much – to observe her sudden intruder. She crossed her legs. “First of all, knocking is a thing. Second, watch your tone,” she warned. Then, cheerily, she added, “It's full of  _shit_ .”

Running a hand across his buzzed head, the boy laughed mockingly. “Ha ha, very funny. But that's not what I... meant...” Stiles trailed off as he stepped further into the house. Beneath him an oak floorboard creaked. Sniffing the air experimentally, he squinted his eyes and made a face. “Is something burning?”

“Something burned. Past tense.”

“What-”

Laura scowled. “Grilled cheese, okay? I attempted to make a grilled cheese.” She threw at arm out, motioning toward the foyer. “Thus the wide-open front door, which you obviously already know about.”

Stepping up to the house behind Stiles, Scott sheepishly knocked politely without taking a single step inside. “Hello?” he called.

Laura laughed. “See that? Scott's polite. You can be polite, too.” Turning a smile on the older teen, the woman beckoned him own with lazy fingers. “Come on in, Scotty.”

The younger werewolf couldn't help the stupid grin that overtook him as he shot forward and wrapped his Alpha in an awkwardly-angled hug. “Hey, Laura.”

“How was school, buddy?” she asked.

“It was school.”

“No transformations?”

“One, during gym, but Stiles distracted everyone,” Scott said proudly, pulling away with a laugh. “Tripped over a dodge ball.”

Stiles groaned. The “distraction” had been entirely accidental and had nearly broken his nose. “Back to what I was saying – this town is _full_ of a shitton of mythical creatures and shit.”

Laura frowned. “Have you been online again? I could have sworn I changed all your passwords.”

“It's called 'Safe Mode.' And it’s not like I was trying out Satanic rituals or anything.”

“Satanic rituals don’t work, Stiles. You were researching spells that _feed on your life force_.”

“Guys, guys,” Scott interrupted, hands flying out in a 'settle down' motion, suddenly uneasy. “Stiles isn't going to trade his life to wash dishes. Can we move on?”

Stiles laughed.

Laura did not.

Turning back to the woman, Stiles grinned wide and announced, “Okay, so I’m pretty sure there’s a tree spirit in the woods-”

The woman giggled and interrupted with a shout of, “Oh, you got it!”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You wish you worked in a magical bathhouse.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” she teased.

“Am I missing something?” Scott interjected.

“Pop culture reference,” Laura offered helpfully before the youngest boy barreled on.

“So there’s a homeless dude in the woods who may or may not be a Leszy. I’m pretty sure he’s the one responsible for our unusually large volume of lost hikers.”

The woman scoffed. “That’s kind of what Leszies do.”

“Am I the only one who doesn’t know what a 'Lesher' is?” Scott inquired.

“There's also been an unusual amount of drownings in the area – all men, all drowned in the same river. I'm starting to think we have a Aquarius on our hands.”

Laura scoffed. “Even if there is an Aquarius, who cares?”

“I do!”

“Guys!” Scott shouted, drawing the exchange to a halt. “Not all of us have experience with the supernatural or live on Google.”

Stiles looked incredibly awkward as Laura waved her hand flippantly. “An Aquarius is an old guy who looks like a frog and drowns people.”

Scott frowned. “Is it just me or is this becoming a pattern of homeless elderly people?”

“Mythology is kinda like that.” Stiles made a face. “Blame the elderly men and beautiful women.”

“And bestiality,” Laura added. “You can't forget the bestiality.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Stiles insisted, hands shooting out in “cool your jets” motion. “ _That_ might have been what happened to Gail. The last anyone saw of her around here was her boyfriend; she went missing while they were camping in the woods.”

The older boy frowned thoughtfully. “Didn't she move away for college? She’d been talking about it nonstop in gym for the last three months of school. University of Oregon or something.”

“Do all college students have files in the sheriff’s office marked ‘920?’ I don’t think so.”

The woman's jaw dropped – most likely to ask _what_ on _Earth_ Stiles was talking about – when Scott cut her off with a curious noise.

“What's 920 again?”

“Missing Person.”

Laura snorted. “Why do you even _care_? People go missing all the time!”

“Duh – because she’s Lydia Martin’s best friend!”

Laura was no stranger to the name “Lydia Martin.” Oh no – Stiles had made absolutely sure of that. From the long rants about strawberry blonde hair to his incredibly detailed, oddly tangent-free presentation – as it was far too practiced to simply be a rant – focused exclusively on the darker outer ring of her “flawless” emerald green irises. “So what?” she snapped. “You think tracking down some lost girl is going to get you a good word in with Lydia?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

“And if your meddling somehow puts Scott under the microscope? What then?”

“God, don't be so paranoid. No one in their right mind would believe werewolves actually exist.”

Laura leveled him with a look. “Not everyone is in their right mind.”

“Yes, and most of them are in Eichen house.”

“No,” the woman amended, eyes narrowing. “Most of them end up running for congress.”

“Seriously though,” Scott cuts in, hand waving through the air to get their attention. “How long were you on Wikipedia? This is weird stuff.”

Stiles grinned. “Weirder than you being a freakin' _werewolf_?” He grinned victoriously as Scott rolled his eyes. He knew he'd won. “Now, Gail-”

“We need to stay under the radar, Stiles,” the woman hissed. “Searching for a missing girl isn't part of keeping a low profile; end of discussion.”

“This isn't just Gail, though. This has been going on for years!” Ignoring the woman's furious expression, Stiles stripped off his backpack, zipped it open, and presented the contents to the Alpha. “This has been happening for years. Mysterious deaths, strange disappearances, animal attacks – those are mostly concentrated over the last decade, though, to be honest – and reports of strange noises. All of it screams supernatural occurrence.”

Burying his face in his hands, Scott sighed, turned on his heel, and made his way into the kitchen.

Laura cocked an eyebrow. “You're seriously going with this? 'Mysterious deaths?' You've got to be kidding.”

“Just...” He shuffled through the stack of papers, some of which looked less like newspaper clippings and more like actual police files. Laura did not know how to feel about this. “Get this; last year they found a guy dead in the locker room of the community gym.”

“So someone was shanked. Big whoop.”

“Here's the thing; there were no stab wounds. He was-” Stiles licked his lips, grinned a silly grin, and bobbed his head smugly along with the words, “- _boiled_ to death.” The boy smacked his lips satisfactorily as Laura looked him in the eye, confused. “Yup. That's right. Third degree water burns all over his body, baby. They triple-checked the water heater and everything; couldn't have come from the showers _or_ the sinks.”

She looked at him a bit longer before shaking her head and looking away. “Nope. I am not getting involved in this.” It was too late, though. Stiles had already seen the flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

The boy mentally cheered at the realization that Laura was just as morbid as he was. “Come on!” he whined. “With great knowledge of the supernatural comes-”

“If you finish that sentence with 'great responsibility' I swear I will end you, spider-whore.”

He winced. “Not a Spidey fan?”

“Static Shock is where it's at,” she deadpanned.

Silence reigned for all of ten seconds before she sighed and clarified. “Okay, but seriously, the Spiderman movies are crap, and the Ultimate Spiderman series was blatant pandering to Teen Titans fans. I don't like reading comic books.”

“There might be a new movie-”

“Don't care.”

Stiles groaned. “Anyway, we should totally-”

Laura's expression went dark. “Totally _what_ , Stiles?” she snapped. "This isn't like Superman, okay? I'm a werewolf, not some super-powered, 'moral compass points north in every instance' alien with a heart of gold."

“But you totally could be!”

The woman blew a raspberry, going quiet for a long moment. After a while she sighed. Leaning forward to press her hands against her knees, she looked Stiles in the eye and spoke slowly, as if she were talking to a child. “Okay, let's assume for a moment that having a perfect moral compass is actually possible. What happens then?” she asked casually. “What happens in comic books?” she continued before the boy could reply. “Their lives are the first thing to take a hit. More than that; going vigilante isn't exactly legal.”

“If people are dying and we're the only ones who know why, we owe it to-”

“We don't owe anyone _anything_ ," Laura snapped, voice even and dangerously low. “You know who we do owe? Ourselves, and everyone who died up until now to keep our existence a secret. We owe it to _ourselves_ not to seek out the supernatural. To live normal, _human_ lives.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asked bitterly. “Who was it that hung around animal bite chat rooms to catch someone who was bitten by a rogue? Sure as hell wasn't me.”

“I did that to keep our existence secret. If the world discovered werewolves-”

“Registration. Limitation of freedom talks. Riots in the streets, yeah, whatever. Death, destruction, mayhem, slavery, world war _fucking_ three. I _get_ it, okay? I've read X-men.”

Laura breathed a slow, deep, calming breath and visibly reigned herself in. “Then you should know,” she whispered, eyes sliding to the floor as her voice went quieter and quieter, “why it's so important we remain secret.”

“But people are different now!” Stiles insisted. “If werewolves go public – everyone is so eager to have super-powers and a cure for cancer-”

“The hunters will come first,” the woman interjected in a whisper. “The hunters will come first and wipe us out. And I don't know about you, but I'm not willing to take that risk just because you want to go gallivanting in the woods looking for tree-men.”

“And the thing that bit Scott?” the boy asked, earning a pained look. “What do we do about that? It's still out there, carving up animals and biting people; exposing the supernatural.”

“That's none of your concern.”

“But it's yours.”

“And mine alone.”

Stiles scoffed. “So what are _you_ going to do about it, then? What is so important about this that you have to step away from your 'human' life and submerge yourself in the supernatural?”

“I have to find it,” the woman tells him honestly, meeting his eyes confidently. She brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes as she leaned back in her chair, legs crossing at the ankles gracefully. “I have to track it down and kill it because I'm an Alpha and it's biting people in my jurisdiction. What's your excuse?”

“Excuse? _Excuse_?” Stiles gaped, sputtering dumbly. “Nothing happens in Beacon Hills!” he shouted, hands shooting up over his head. He made a face, daring her to say otherwise. “Duh!”

…

“All right, all right, all right!” a man shouted, calling for the attention of the boys filing out of the gymnasium. “Gather 'round Daddy Finstock, everyone.”

Scott, just coming out into the gym, followed the others to crowd around the man. He'd heard rumors of Finstock being eccentric, but he'd missed tryouts for both sports the year before and had never been closer during games than the third row. He hadn't thought it would have mattered until the man started slapping shoulders and spouting lines that would have his mother cringe and threaten to sue. The worst being, “If you can't breathe, just keep running!”

It was Monday; the second Monday of the school year and the first official Cross Country practice of the semester.

“Now show me what you got!” Coach screamed, pointing toward the line of tape on the ground. “Line up, boys! You do three laps around the trail and shout your name when you pass, capisch? Now let's go, let's go, let's go!”

Scott wandered around for a moment, Stiles at his side before the other boys' bumping and squishing managed to separate them, until he found a place along the tape. As he waited for the whistle – braced himself for what he knew would pierce his ears and make his head throb for hours – he found himself surprised by the sudden increase in noise.

“Now remember everyone,” Finstock shouted, though Scott was more focused on how everyone's hearts seemed to be going a mile a minute. “Sta-mi-na!” Sixty boys all lined up with thrumming adrenaline and nerves; it was like an organ drum circle.

The whistle that blew shot a nail through his ear, sending the werewolf to the ground in a flailing bundle of limbs as he desperately attempted to cover his ears as he overbalanced. For a long moment all that existed in the world was the piercing shrill of the little bit of metal clenched between Coach's teeth. But then there was a hand on his shoulder, and a voice whispering in his ear.

“You know, McCall,” Finstock began. “If that's what it takes to get you to collapse, you might want to think of moving up in the world. I hear the knitting club is taking members.”

“We don't have a knitting club,” Scott pointed out weakly.

“Then you can be the first member; Captain even!” the man congratulated sarcastically. Then, without warning, the playful expression dropped and his face went dark as he shouted, “Now start running!”

“Yes coach.” He was on his feet in an instant, sprinting toward the tail-end of the crowd of boys – and a few scattered girls – far in front of him, already nearing the first corner.

Far behind him, he could barely hear Finstock shout, “Hey! Pace yourself, moron!” before muttering, “Teenagers.”

The pounding hearts were getting closer, closer, closer... and then they were beside him.

“Scott, what the hell-” Stiles had begun as he drew even.

Scott gave him a big grin as he shot passed the group before putting the pounding mass of bodies behind him. He hadn't run since the last time he and Laura had gone out on the full moon. For a long moment the only things he could focus on were the trail and the steady _slap, slap, slap_ of his sneakers against the dirt trail. He rounded the second corner with little difficulty, then the third, and then the fourth. And to be met with a beaming grin and eyes wide with shock...  Scott didn't think he'd ever forget the look on Finstock's face.

“Way to go, McCall!” the coach cheered, turning to shout down the hill with his megaphone to his lips. “See that, boys?” he shouted.

Scott covered his ears, flinching away from the squeal of the amp.

“A severe asthmatic made it before you losers! Hurry it up!” he screamed helpfully. “If that's all you have to offer then first line will have to be filled with my grandmother's neighbors! And let me tell you something; my grandmother's _dead_. ”

…

“ _Come on, Scott_.”

Scott made a face. “You can't be serious.”

“ _Come on! She was obviously trapped in an endless maze or something because hey – there's a Leszy in the forest. We'll be local heroes if we find her!_ ”

“No.”

“ _Dude, we_ have _to go_.”

“No, Stiles. We don't.” Scott was getting tired of this argument. Ever since Stiles had discovered the supernatural he was more than eager to go out, find it, and... Well, neither of them knew what he would do afterward. Either way, the boy was going to get them in serious trouble. “I'm doing well! My grades are good, I'm getting _somewhat_ popular – I don't need to get in any trouble right now. In fact, that's the _last_ thing I need.”

“ _You're the one always bitching nothing happens in this town!_ ”

“Yeah, and then I got bitten by a werewolf!” Scott whined, mouth open in incredulity. “Twice!”

“ _Psh – details. You're starting to sound like Laura. You're a teenager with superpowers. Enjoy it! So what if you turn into a furry monster once a month? Sure as hell beats bleeding out of your penis._ ”

The older boy grimaced. “Did you just make a period joke?”

“ _I'll be at your house in five_.”

The line clicked twice, then went dead, and the werewolf was left standing alone in his room with a phone pressed to his ear and a sigh on his lips. Without even bothering to hesitate, he pulled his cell away from his face and started dialing.

It picked up after one ring. “ _Hey-do, Scotty. What's up_?”

…

Stiles was just pulling into the reserve when Scott finally spoke. “What if it's something worse than a lesher?”

The younger boy scoffed. “Oh come on; what could be worse than being lost until we die of starvation?”

“And if we get caught by the lesher?”

“Then we switch our shoes and turn our clothes inside-out.”

Scott frowned. “You're serious, aren't you?”

“Of course I'm serious!” the teen snapped back.

“And if it's the werewolf again?”

“Then you go werewolf on his werewolf ass. You have claws, don't you?”

Scott remained silent at this.

“Exactly.”

“And what about those drownings you mentioned? What if whatever got them gets us, too?”

Stiles sighed, head twitching so he could look at Scott for a short moment before his eyes shot back to the pavement. Maneuvering into a parking spot, he settled the Jeep in park. “Wow, you really know how to keep the tone light, don't you?”

Again, there was no reply.

The younger boy threw his arms up. “Thank you,” he exclaimed, turning his attention outside the Jeep, only to freeze. “Dude, you did not – You just lost best bro status!” Flopping back against his seat, Stiles gave Scott a withering look.

“But-”

“I'm here,” Laura shouted, cutting him off as she approached the driver's-side window. “And I am not letting you wander around the forest in the middle of the night on your own. Deal with it.”

The human wrenched his door open, jumped out of the Jeep, and stood face to face with the woman staring up at him like he were two inches tall. “I'm not on my own!” he whined, flinging one arm towards his car. “I have Scott with me. You know – werewolf?”

She made an acknowledging noise, eyebrows raising just a touch. “And what, may I ask, happened the last time you two were allowed to navigate the reserve without supervision?”

“He was bitten by a werewolf, which can't exactly happen again and have the same results.”

An eyebrow was raised.

A fit was pitched.

Laura was coming whether Stiles liked it or not.

…

It had been three hours.

“Hey, shouldn't we stay on the trail?”

Three hours of wandering.

“Are we going the right way?”

Three hours of stupid questions.

“Why are you looking up like that?”

Three hours of wandering with Stiles staring straight up into the trees.

“What are we even _looking_ for?”

“A Leszy.”

Three hours of wearing a shirt inside out and backwards so there was no chance of getting lost.

“What does a lesher look like?”

“An old man in a scarf.”

Three hours in the dark forest of the preserve in  _October_ . Sure, the weather didn't change all that much in Beacon Hills, seeing as it was one, California and two, only a few dozen miles from the sea. But it still managed to get pretty biting at night and Stiles was pretty sure he was going to lose a toe if he had to spend another three hours searching.

Three hours without so much as a hint of red and Scott's head cocked and he took off into the woods without warning, booking it away from their small group without a single word.

Stiles frowned. “Where's he going?”

Laura laid a hand across his chest, pushing him back in the general direction they had come from. “Stay here,” she tells him after glancing behind him. “Don't follow me, don't turn around, and don't go back. Just... wait here.”

“Just – at least tell me what's going on!”

She only hesitated a moment before answering quickly. “You were right; something supernatural drowned those men. But it's not an Aquarius,” she whispered darkly, turning to look at Stiles. “It's a Siren.” In an instant she took off after Scott, leaving the younger boy behind standing there, useless.

There was a short beat of silence before the boy followed at a dead sprint, dread settling in his gut. “How can a siren be here?” the teen shouted, forgetting for a moment that she would have heard him even if he hadn't. “Aren't they a sea-thing?”

“Don't follow me, you idiot!” she called back, voice nearly out of range of hearing. “Stay there!”

Stiles forced himself faster, attempting to catch up. _But_ , he found himself wondering, _what will happen when I do? Will I get caught in the song?_

He didn't have to think too hard on it. By the time he arrived a tableau had already formed. Laura stood center stage, fully shifted and furious in the moonlight, water up to her hips as she lunged through the shallows of the river. There was a new player in their act; a misty body floating above the water, steadily growing solid before Stiles' eyes. She was the Stiles' right – upper-left stage position, hands dangling into the water along with her lower torso. And Scott...

Scott wasn't anywhere.

And, the younger teen noted curiously, there was a stunning lack of singing.

Laura screamed, lunging forward with one clawed hand to swipe at the body.

The form – siren? – simply eased backwards as if moving through a swiftly-moving river were easy. She screeched, dragging something –  _someone_ , Stiles realized, recognizing Scott's hoodie as his arm flopped out of the water – through the rapids. Her face seemed to be wrapped with seaweed, though Stiles could only make out so much in the darkness despite the fact that she was, in fact glowing.

And wasn't that a fun thing to know? Sirens were bioluminescent.

Stiles watched them swipe at each other for a moment longer, hiding behind a tree and becoming more and more aware of the time Scott was spending under water. More aware of the desperation clear on Laura's face. Aware of the Siren's green skin and short, familiar pixie-cut.

 _Familiar... pixie cut_?

Stiles raced forward, into front-center stage of the act as things fell into place in his head.

Laura turned, eyes wide. “Stiles, get out of here!”

Gail, who had gone missing.

“Go back!”

Men reported missing in the woods.

“You shouldn't see this!”

The girl's boyfriend, the football player, who had been the last one to see her.

Scott's body, thrashing beneath the form's hands in the water.

Stopping just before the edge of the water, Stiles shouted, “Hey, Gail.”

Once more, the tableau froze as the Siren's face shot up, what was apparently not seaweed, but the fabric of her torn jacket sliding away to reveal a green, glowing face. A young woman gazed across the river, eyes trained on the boy just short on the shallows. She shook her head. “I don't know you,” she hissed.

Stiles didn't hear her over the water. “Brian drowned you, didn't he?”

Many things happened all at once at that point. Gail disappeared; Scott shot out of the water; Laura dragged him to shore, heaving and coughing, and asked the younger boy, “How did you know?”

He shrugged, wide eyes on the heaving form of his friend. “You said Siren. This is a river.” He motioned halfheartedly toward the water with one hand. “And I remembered reading the other day about these Rusalka things.”

The woman laughed. “I never imagined you would go for the obscure mythology.”

“Not obscure,” Stiles amended. “Polish. And...” He shrugged. “Ancient water creatures don't really strike me as the kind to have short hair.”

Scott's eyes slowly flickered open as he vomited up the last of the water onto the dirt. “Shit,” he wheezed, pushing himself up with wobbling arms. “What just happened?”

“You rushed into the arms of a woman and she drowned you,” his friend offered dryly. “I gotta say, bro – your taste in women is a bit lacking.”

“Don't listen to him, Scott. It was a Siren-”

“ _Rusalka_ ,” Stiles corrected bitterly.

“-and they're incredibly difficult to resist,” she continued sweetly, ignoring the younger boy entirely.

Scott squinted, looking around in disorientation. “If I'm like this, why isn't Stiles?”

Laura shook her head. “I don't think Stiles was close enough to hear her when she was singing.”

“And you?”

She laughed. “I have the benefit of being a woman.” Taking hold of her beta's arm, she pulled him to his feet without the slightest show of effort. “Now come on. It's late – let's get you home.”

Scott coughed weakly, mumbling something about a weight on his chest as he was dragged away from the river and into the undergrowth.

Stiles went to follow.

He didn't get very far before Gail was there again, staring at him curiously with translucent eyes. “I don't know you,” she said simply, eyes narrowing. “Should I?”

“We, uh...” He glanced around the woman, trying to get an idea of how far ahead the others were, only to realize they'd already disappeared into the foliage. Turning his attention back to the ghost, he sighed. “We weren't really acquainted. I saw you a few times when you and Lydia hung out, but you never really saw me.”

Much to his displeasure, she nodded knowingly. “Yeah; you don't look like someone I would remember.” Ouch. “How's everyone doing? You know – since I'm...” Gail trailed off, looking hesitant.

“Dead?” Stiles offered with a bored look. “I don't think even _Lydia_ knows your missing. And in case you hadn't noticed, Lydia keeps everything pretty close to her chest.”

She giggled. “Yeah. She's pretty good at that.”

“Yeah,” the boy agreed. “Yeah, she is.”

“Can you do something for me?”

“Depends what it is.”

Closing her eyes, she seemed to take a deep breath – and hey, wasn't that weird? Ghosts breathing? – and there was the crack of rocks from behind Stiles. “I think I'm ready to be found, now.”

In an instant she was gone. The boy spun on his heels, looking towards the source of a rumbling, creaking noise that shook the ground and grated his ears, only to bend in half an vomit into the grass when he saw a hand protruding from the soil not fifteen feet from him. Turning away from the sight, he fumbled for his phone.

…

The following morning was not how Scott had imagined it.

The morning after Stiles' mother died the younger boy hadn't gotten out of bed. He'd told Scott he didn't have the strength. By the time he did, two days later, the entire world seemed to be that much darker. That much more dreary and dry and _sad_. So the day after finding Gail's body Scott  expected rain. Something cold and depressing. Something to mark the fact that someone had died. That they had found a woman's body in the river after talking to her ghost – which was pretty freaky because not six months before he'd been convinced ghosts were stupid and seriously, who believed in that stuff?

But the weather was... dull. There were scattered showers that morning, and the sun was sort of out. It all cleared up around eight, and it was a little chilly, but not excessively. Nothing too horrible. Nothing too wonderful. It was just another day, like any other. All of it was almost painfully ordinary.

A woman had died and nothing had changed.

Scott didn't know how to feel about this.

…

“So, Scott,” Rosa – the woman who usually watched the front desk at the station – asked, sliding a small bowl of candies toward the boy. “Tell me. How did you find the body?”

“Can't you just listen to the dispatch tape?” the boy asked, even thought he was well aware of the recording's ineligibility for proper records. Not only did everyone get horrible reception in the woods, but Stiles had kept repeating the same words over and over during the call itself. He didn't tell them how they had found Gail – only that they had found her.

Rosa gave him a look.

Sighing miserably, Scott pulled to mind the story he as Stiles had rehearsed under Laura's direction. She had made sure their stories were different, at least in the minor details. “Stiles and I went out into the woods because I was having a bad day, okay? And I just got this idea in my head that I wanted to toss stuff in the river and just... We found her. Her hand was sticking out of the mud and everything.”

“Stiles says he found her.”

“He did.”

“No, Scott. You said 'we.'”

“Does it matter? He spotted her first, I spotted her second and realized it was a human hand 'cause I was closer and I kinda freaked out.”

The woman slipped a hand into her pocket, retrieving a slip of paper. She frowned. “According to his interview, you had a panic attack.”

“I think it was a cross between a panic attack and an asthma attack. I had just been running and found a dead body. It was one or the other.” Scott didn't have to remember feeling nervous or shaky, because even recalling the hand sticking out of the mud – and the stench that had followed – had the blood draining from his face. In penance for his reaction he added, “Stiles puked.” That at least was true.

Rosa made a noise of acknowledgment before shifting in her chair. “And you knew Gail, correct?”

Scott shrugged. “She was popular. I knew of her. That's about it.”

Nodding politely, the woman smiled and set the papers down with a grin. “Thanks, Scott. That's all we needed to know. Thanks for coming in.”

“Sure. No problem.”

…

Scott didn't know how to feel, a week later, when he was invited to the girl's funeral to pay respects. And when he watched Stiles look at Lydia across the lawn he could see the boy had similar feelings. There was not an ounce of his usual hormone-driven courage in his body as she arrived in a puffy black dress and flawless makeup. Even with Scott at his side in a borrowed suit, Stiles seemed to have no conviction to approach her.

So when she walked up to him after the ceremony neither of them said a word.

“You were the ones who found the body, aren't you?”

Stiles and Scott exchanged a look, and for once Stiles motioned for Scott to do the talking.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Are you-” _okay_?

“Thank you,” the girl said quickly, voice cracking and a single tear slipping out from one eye seemingly against her will. It was quickly wiped away. She followed this up with the clearing of her throat and a motion with one hand to fluff her hair. "Happy Birthday, Scott,” she greeted quickly before turning on her heel and flouncing away.

And wasn't that a kicker? In all that had happened Scott had forgotten his birthday.

Scott elbowed the boy beside him with a dull look. “Dude, you should totally go over there and offer your condolences. You did all this for her, right?”

“What?” Stiles wheezed, mouth falling open. “No. Man I – I just found her best friend's _body_.”

“So? You have her attention, don't you?”

“Not like I want to, no.”

…

After the interrogation at the police station, Stiles had hoped to come home to a sober household. Quiet. Calm. Maybe with a football game playing on the TV in the background or one of his mother's records set to play in the living room. They always helped Stiles relax.

While the house was sober, as was his father, Stiles realized he and Scott were having a lot of their expectations about death blown out of the water.

“You wanna tell me the real reason you were out there?” he had snapped just as the boy set his keys in the bowl by the door.

He froze. “Scott was having a bad-”

“Don't give me that. When Scott has a bad day you come over here and play video games. You don't go and look for crime scenes.”

“Crime scenes?”

“Don't play stupid, Stiles!” he shouted. “I know you've been looking through those drowning cases! And there you were, right where they all disappeared.”

Stiles throat closed up as realization sunk in. How it should have made sense in the woods, when Laura told him it was a Siren – _Rusalka_ , he corrected himself.

“Son, you-”

“I swear, Dad, I never made the connection!” he interrupted weakly. Taking a moment to breathe, he continued after a few seconds of silence in a squeaky voice. “I mean, I knew some people had drowned in the river, yeah, but I didn't know they had all drowned in the same spot, okay? We were in the woods, and Scott got weird and took off and... I was just following Scott.” He'd think of Gail being a murderer later.

Oh, and wasn't that the kicker? Gail was a _murderer_. She had even tried to kill Scott. And despite it all Stiles was _helping_ her. When all she had been to him while she was alive was dismissive and rude and – at best – indifferent.

In an instant his father seemed to deflate, anger dissipating beneath something the boy didn't want to call resignation. “I'm sorry. It's just you're always-”

“Making trouble?” Stiles interjected, mouth dry but heart lighter.

The Sheriff smiled. “Looking for it.” Motioning toward the living room, the man took a seat in his recliner as the boy settled for the couch. “I'm just frustrated with this case. Things are piling up and...” He paused, and Stiles realized they must have found signs of struggle on the body. “You're a good judge of character. Has anyone who ever... _hung around_ Gail ever set you off?”

He bit back a scoff at his father's attempt at 'teenage jargon' and instead said the one thing he had been waiting to say since he'd spoken with the girl. “To be honest, her boyfriend never rubbed me the right way.”

“Really? No jab at Jackson?”

Stiles frowned. “Dad, I'm serious.”

The man seemed taken aback by this, mulling over his son's expression along with his words. “Her boyfriend was the one to report her missing.”

“And where did he say he lost her?”

There was a short silence before the Sheriff sighed, running a hand wearily over one side of his face. “You might be on to something.”

Stiles sighed. “Kind of wish I wasn't.”

“Yeah, kid,” the man drawled, leaning further back into his chair with a deep sigh. “Me too.”

…

That night, when Scott's phone rang, he didn't bother checking the caller ID before picking up.

“What's up, Stiles?”

“ _Am I an asshole_?”

Leaning back against his pillows, Scott hesitated to reply as he realized this was going to turn into a Very Serious Talk. Stiles is Having a Revelation of Self Talk. Stiles is Learning Something About Himself Talk. The Talk that might just change his friend for the rest of his life, if not just for a few weeks before he went back to normal. And it was all very strange for Scott, because he had never had any issues like Stiles had issues.

He didn't quite remember when his dad left, so there wasn't any real trauma there despite the popular belief that a parent leaving was huge. Turning into a werewolf – thanks to Laura – hadn't actually been much of an experience, either. It was 90% keeping calm and 10% forcing himself not to kill anyone. Something that was admittedly very easy seeing as he didn't actually want to kill anyone.

But Stiles wasn't Scott. Stiles had panic attacks and was on medication and didn't actually have any friends aside from the obvious. Stiles got nasty looks at school for just looking at someone. Stiles had issues with keeping still, over sharing, and not talking for more than five minutes. And, if Scott were brutally honest, Stiles had an issue with masturbating in the boy's locker room between classes. And with this in mind Scott settled back on his bed and fought to find the right words. “Do _you_ think you're an asshole?”

“ _Yeah. I'm definitely an asshole. But there's, like, lovable assholes and annoying assholes, and I always just figured I was the former. But with this whole thing with Gail I figure I'm the latter_.”

“Why do you say that?”

“ _Scott, imagine for a second that you hadn't called Laura. What would have happened if we had found Gail on our own_?”

“Where are you going with this?”

“ _I'm saying that I'm starting to get why Laura wants to stay out of the supernatural, and why you don't want to go into the woods, and... Every time someone tells me not to do something I push and push until I get my way and I don't really pay attention to the consequences. Back in kindergarten – you remember when I asked you to play hide and seek with me and you told me you couldn't because you forgot your inhaler?_ ”

Scott shivered, finally realizing where Stiles was going. “Well, yeah.”

“ _And then you got that massive asthma attack. That happens a lot, you know? I get some idea in my head and you get hurt. A few months ago I wanted to get high; you got bit by a werewolf. A_ _ **werewolf**_ _, man. Then I wanted to find Gail and you nearly got your furry ass drowned. All because I wanted to impress Lydia._ ”

“What are you saying, Stiles?” the boy asked, suddenly scared. “That you... don't want to be friends?”

“ _What?_ ” Stiles scoffed. “ _Hell no, man. You're all I got. I'm just giving you executive power to shut me down, okay? You call the shots from now on. I'm not going to terminate our bro-ship. What do you take me for? An idiot? Dude, what would I even do without you?_ ”

A wave of relief washed over the boy as he agreed quietly before saying his goodbyes and hanging up, laying limp over his bed. He imagined what Stiles was doing – probably the same thing. Maybe breathing deep the way his mom, Claudia, had taught him to whenever he had a panic attack. Scott tried to emulate it, but it didn't do much of anything for him. It was strange, but the longer he was a werewolf the more he became aware that his old methods of soothing – and medications, and even _coffee_ – no longer worked.

Curling his hand into a fist, he tried to call his claws forward. There was no tell-tale prickle of nails lengthening, though, so he unclenched it and sighed. It's not like he wanted to be able to claw someone's face off on command; it was just that he finally had a body he could control and he couldn't.

Control, Scott begun to learn, was something he craved.

…

"How long do you think I'll be stuck here?” Gail asked for the third time in the last hour, combing transparent hands through equally transparent hair. “I mean, is this that sort of 'resolve your death' sort of thing you see on TV, like with Ghost Whisperer, or is it like 'I'm a ghost haunting the preserve' thing? 'Cause, I mean, it's really boring here. But it might be cool to be the hot Rusulkish thingy haunting the river.”

“Rusalka,” Stiles corrected. "And I don't know. You're kind of the first ghost I've ever met."

She made a noise. "Really? You seemed so confident."

"Yeah, well, it's not like I could afford to scare you off."

The girl laughed, her voice taking on an edge of beauty. Stiles could only assume it came from being a river Siren going by the sudden lurching sensation in his stomach.. "You're really cool, you know that?"

He met this with a laugh. "That's nice of you to notice. Can I say about time? Because, seriously, _about time_. Although, I gotta admit, it'd be a lot nicer if someone _alive_ could see that." He tosses a rock in the river. "Preferably someone five-foot-three," he tossed another rock, "strawberry blonde," another, his voice going hoarse as it cracks horribly, "smartest girl on the face of the planet and decidedly not aware of my existence."

Gail laughs at this. "For a moment there I thought you were talking about Lydia Martin."

Frowning sharply, Stiles turned to her and leveled her with narrowed eyes. "I _am_ talking about Lydia Martin."

"Lydia isn't smart."

“Lydia is a genius who pretends to be stupid for the sake of her Neanderthal of a boyfriend. Who, I might add, does not deserve her. _At all_. And I have to watch every year, in slow motion, as he destroys her."

"Jackson would never hurt Lydia."

"Maybe not physically, but the moment he thinks something better comes along he's going to drop her like a rock. And he makes her very aware of this." He groaned bitterly, unaware of the girl's utterly shocked expression. "The idiot doesn't even realize what he's got! Just – he's got the smartest, most beautiful girl in the world and he doesn't even know it! And one day she's going to win the Nobel Prize or something amazing like that and he's not even going to have a clue what it means because he's too busy looking at himself in the mirror. She deserves someone way better than that asshole."

"What? Someone like you?" Suddenly her voice was bitter and dry.

Stiles offered half a smile. "Will it sound really bad if I say yes?"

"Yeah, it will."

Grin turning wan, the boy turned to look at the river. The space where the girl's body had been dug out was a gaping hole in the ground. Water had flooded in, resulting in a swirling pool indenting the opposite end of the river bank. He watched it closely, thinking hard about an answer that would satisfy them both. "You know, to be honest I wouldn't mind if it wasn't me. As long as it was someone who... who could treat her right, you know? Someone worth her time. Then I wouldn't have to look at her every day and know that I was losing to someone like Jackson."

"Okay, seriously, I don't get it. What's wrong with Jackson?” she moaned. “I mean, yeah, sometimes he's a little rude, but it's nothing too bad."

"If you want to know what a man is truly like, look to how he treats his inferiors, not his equals."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means if you're not popular, Jackson treats you like shit... and that Dumbledore was a great man."

"Dumbledore?"

Stiles flung his arms up, exasperated. "Oh my god, I am never visiting you again. Oh, don't-” he added quickly as the girl seemed to deflate, and even went a bit more transparent. “I'll ask Scott to visit, okay? He's better at this stuff than I am."

She perked up quickly at this. "Scott's the cute one, right?"

After a short moment of silence, Stiles jumped up off the ground and announced, "That's it. I'm out." He waved goodbye with one hand, making his way away from the river and back toward the forest trail.

"Good luck with Lydia!"

Pausing to look behind him, Stiles called back, "Do you really mean that?"

She scoffed. "Of course not.”

The boy sighed. Even in death, popular people were popular people.

…

A week later, Stiles arrived at school to find that someone on the school newspaper had gotten pictures of Brian – Gail's boyfriend – getting cuffed and being pushed into a police car.

For reasons he himself couldn't begin to understand, he ran to the bathroom.

And then he stayed there for three hours.

All eyes were on him as he was lead out of the restroom by a counselor and two campus security officers during lunch.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I referenced “Aquarius” in this – I'm referring to the “Wodnik” demon. There was more information on websites and books in Polish, and as it turns out the English equivalent of “Wodnik” is “Aquarius.” I was honestly quite surprised by this. (The books were a nightmare. I've never really gotten the hang of trans-lingual dictionaries. Most of my info is from the Polish side of Wikipedia.)


	5. Mountain Ash

November wasn't any different than October. The nights got colder by about five degrees, the days shorter by ten minutes, and more leaves turned to a far from subtle variation of oranges and reds. People went about their lives. Business remained steady, as far as any teenager was concerned. Scott was alarmed to find how little finding a woman's body actually changed.

This was what he was thinking of on the fateful day he walked into the local vet's office, resume in hand.

Scott tried to keep in mind the three things his mother had told him before he'd walked out the door: be confident, be courteous, and be curious. Except all he could think about was the body; the bloated skin and the empty sockets and the mud caking every inch of the torn fabric of the young woman's clothes.

The neon Open light had been lit, and the sign on the door was turned to proclaim a doctor was on site, along with displaying the hours of the clinic. The font was a faded, pastel red Taking a deep breath, Scott secured his bike to a rack off the side of the building. (He had an odd moment follow this as he realized he could probably tear the lock's chain to pieces if he wanted. Which he didn't.)

Rushing – at least, at first, before he caught himself and slowed a bit to not look too desperate – through the door, Scott came into an empty waiting room. And wow – shouldn't there have been someone else there? People should have been lining up around the block.

“Scott?”

The boy jumped as Deaton rounded a corner and stood across from him behind a wide barrier.

“Thanks for coming in.” Stepping up to the barrier, the man offered his hand to shake.

Scott moved forward with a silly grin, arm stretching out to... slide down and tap the barrier.

The boy frowned as he tried again. And just as before, his hand seemed to hit against a sort of pressure that pushed him down and away. “I'm not doing this on purpose, I swear,” the teen offered weakly, looking the man in the eye nervously. “I don't-”

“You shouldn't worry about it, Scott,” the man assured him, quietly. “It's reassuring to know the wards still work.”

“Wards?”

“Against the supernatural,” Deaton tells him matter-of-fact, like it was any normal thing instead of some major twist. “It's all through the building.”

“So I can't work here, then.” The teen's face fell as he said this. “If I can't get in I'm kind of useless.”

Deaton's grin, if possible got wider. In one smooth movement he reached down and undid the latch holding the gate closed. And suddenly the pressure was gone. “Any ward can be lifted, Scott.”

“So if I do get the job...” the boy began hesitantly, “Does that mean I won't be able to work open or close?”

“Not at all, Scott. It simply means I cannot be late.” Deaton grinned, then motioned to a chair for Scott to sit. “Now, should we get this interview under way?”

…

With a self-important swish of fabric, Stiles hiked his hands up high on his waist beneath his flannel and approached the Library Service Counter with a wide grin. “Hey, I requested some books to be shipped.”

“Name?” the person behind the counter asked. Stiles couldn't tell if they were a man or woman, and frankly he didn't care.

“Stilinski. S-T-I-L-I-N-S-K-I.”

“Stilinski,” they parroted, typing his name into the computer. The boy watched closely as their face seemed to drop. “Is, uh... Can I see some ID?”

Digging into his pocket, Stiles presented his driver's permit with a drawn grin.

The librarian looked it over for a grand total of five seconds before announcing, “My condolences.”

“Thanks, smartass. Got my books?”

“I...” Reading over the screen, the librarian, again, frowned. “Do you know the skew numbers so I can confirm which books you requested?”

“Why the hell would I know the skew numbers?”

“To confirm we didn't accidentally order the wrong book.”

“And you can't just read the titles?”

The guy – woman – _person_ , they were definitely a person, was probably having an off day because they immediately snapped, “You wanna know something? I don't know a million languages. And I sure as hell don't know whatever the hell kind of satanic language is on my screen right now, okay?”

“It's Polish.”

“So you're saying you can read Polish?”

“What? No, of course I can't.”

“And neither can our computers. Half of these titles are made up of _squares_.”

“Can't you go back, get them, and I can confirm I ordered them?”

“I saw them earlier. They're really heavy.”

Glancing at the person's badge, Stiles realized quickly that he was dealing with an assistant, not an actual librarian. “Okay, Alex,” he began politely. “You have your phone on you? You could go back and take a picture of the books, come back, show me, and we can figure it out from there.”

“I don't have a phone.”

Stiles wanted to smash his face against the counter. “I ordered three books, okay? One starts with a T, the other starts with a W, and the last one starts with a wonky little symbol that kind of looks like an H, but probably shows up as a square. Is that enough for you?”

Alex glanced from the screen, then to Stiles, then back to the screen. “Fine,” they said finally, heaving a sigh. Stepping away from the counter, they motioned to the teen with one hand and said, “I'll be right back,” before disappearing into the rows of shelves behind him.

The boy waited in still silence for all of three seconds before he began to fidget. Fingers tapped at the counter, dragged across the surface, tugged at the bottom of his hoodie, drew through his hair. Five minutes later Alex emerged from the stacks wheeling a cart with three piles of paper that couldn't _actually_ be bound.

Grabbing one, Axel carefully slammed it down on the counter, which Stiles could swear creaked lightly under the weight.

“Holy _shit_.”

“Cart stays behind the counter,” Alex added helpfully after depositing the second and third monsters.

Reaching for them cautiously, Stiles attempted to lift the first of the books from the pile. It didn't budge. “How did you _lift_ these? Are you, like, secretly He-Man or something?”

They stared at Stiles for a short moment, then began to push the entire stack toward him – and off the counter – with one hand.

Grabbing at the books with a sound of panic, Stiles hooked his arms beneath the lowest point and... stood there.

And stood there.

And stood there.

His breath came out in a long wheeze as he attempted to take a step.

Nope. Nope that was not going to happen.

“Are you okay?”

Stiles glanced up cautiously – would moving his head crush his lungs? – to eye the boy. “Oh, uh, hey Danny.” His voice came out in a squeak. Stiles would have offered a hand in greeting, but had a feeling he would have dropped the books and Alex would have put a centuries old curse on him or something. Despite, you know, being Stiles' age. Not to mention his foot might not survive.

The boy look at him carefully, almost as if taken aback by the greeting. Maybe a touch disgusted. Granted, Danny always looked like that when Stiles talked to him. Actually, most people looked like that when Stiles talked to them.

“What's up?”

Danny sighed. “Do you need help with those?” he offered reluctantly.

Stiles glanced up from his armful of books – or bookful of arms, taking into account the paper-to-human-flesh ratio – to gaze up at the sophomore with open surprise. “Uh – yeah. That would be great. Awesome. Yes please.”

“You're welcome and...” Reaching down, the boy snatched two of the books out of Stiles' grip and held them easily. “Don't think anything of this, okay? I'm just worried about the books.”

“Duly noted.” Okay, yeah, he was kind of miffed by that last bit.

Hoisting the books further up in his arms, Danny took a few confident steps toward the tables near the library's center while Stiles shuffled miserably behind him. “So where do you want these?”

“Any table will do,” the weaker teen told him, nearly bowling over as a five year old sprinted in front of him, shortly followed by a stay at home father stage-whispering, “Sharie! Don't run in the library!”

Danny dropped the books carefully on one of the closer tables, eyes locked on the books.

“Thanks for your help,” the younger boy said courteously.

“What language is this?” Danny leaned over the cover, peering at the title carefully.

“Polish,” Stiles offered quietly, dropping his book to the table and pulling it open to a page. He grimaced. “I forgot a dictionary.”

“You're going to translate this?”

He shrugged. “Well, yeah. I mean, I can't read it otherwise. Unless you know someone around here who speaks Polish.”

“What about your dad? I mean, your family's Polish, right?”

Stiles opened his mouth to say yes, technically his family was Polish, only to have the air freeze in his lungs as he recalled something he'd known vaguely as a child, but never really thought about.

His _mom_ had spoken Polish.

Danny watched carefully as Stiles' expression ranged from confused, to thoughtful, and then wandered into... Well, he didn't really know how to describe it. It was like the floor had been ripped out from beneath him.

“I'm going to get a dictionary. See you at school,” the boy muttered, shoulders hunched and elbows practically glued to his sides.

As he watched him walk away, Danny found a question fighting through his thoughts to the surface, demanding attention and bubbling from him like a fountain. “This isn't for a class, is it?”

Stiles froze, then turned to look at him curiously. “No. Why?”

“No reason,” he replied quietly, shrugging in a way he hoped came across as nonchalant. Much to his relief, the boy turned back to this search for a Polish to English dictionary. Switching his attention to the entrance, Danny was surprised to see a blond boy giving him the stink eye. He hurried over with a sheepish expression. “Hey Jackson.”

“You were _not_ just talking to Stilinski,” the blond snapped.

The taller boy sighed. “He just needed some help carrying some books, okay?”

“Yeah, and if you start jerking off at school I'm not going to hang out with you any more. Just thought I should make that clear.”

“Public masturbation isn't a contagious disease.”

Jackson scoffed. “Yeah, but that doesn't mean you should spend time with him.”

“I wasn't – whatever. He needed help, I helped him. End of story. Now, History paper?”

The blond's eyes narrowed, but he shrugged and made a dismissive noise, allowing it to drop. “Whatever.”

Three hours later, Stiles gave a great groan – attracting the attention of everyone in the library – and promptly grabbed a cart so he could check out and then wheel his books out to his jeep.

**...**

The sun was just beginning to set as Scott skid his bike to a stop in front of a shop styled after a small log cabin. Tying his bike up to a rack near the door, he pushed it open and strode in, glancing around for the camping gear.

“Welcome to the Preserve store. How may I help you today?” a woman recited dully from the back counter. Her fake nails – a bright pink that clashed with the ebony tones of her skin – dragged lazily across the varnish of her magazine cover, tapping the gloss like it owed her something.

“I was wondering,” Scott glanced at her name tag, “Abhaya, if I could get some fire wood. Like, uh, Redwood. Please.”

The woman rolled her eyes, tucking a long strand of bright red hair – was it dyed? – behind her ear before reaching beneath the desk and producing a large jar of black powder. “Five bucks for a jar of Mountain Ash,” she drawled, sounding bored. “And you don't have to worry about marshmallow drippings, okay? I'm diabetic. There's MAYBE some hot dog juice in there. Don't say I didn't warn you if you find a glob of grease. It's your ash, not mine. I'm not gonna pick that shit out.”

“Uh... yeah,” Scott acknowledged, shocked. “That's, uh... That sounds fair.” Digging for his wallet, he frowned as he pulled out four ones. “Could, uh, could I ask for a price reduction?”

“Five bucks,” she repeated. “Firewood is fifteen per bundle.”

“You know, I could just go out there and chop my own firewood.”

“Cutting down trees without a permit will result in a five-hundred dollar fine,” the woman recited dully. Then, helpfully, she added, “You have some coins in your left pocket.”

Scott blinked, reaching in to find a small pile of dimes and quarters. “Huh.”

A dark hand came out, motioning for the coins. Abhaya counted them off, humming to herself before snatching them up along with the ones. “Four ninety-five. We have enough take-a-pennies to cover the rest.” She pushed the jar towards him, not bothering to give him warning when it nearly pitched off the counter. “Have a good day.”

“Uh, yeah,” the teen mumbled. “Sure. You too.”

…

It was nine in the afternoon.

It was nine in the afternoon and Stiles had just gotten back from the library.

It was nine in the afternoon, Stiles had just gotten back from the library, and in lieu of homework the boy had promptly dropped onto his bed with the sole intention of having an orgasm. He almost bounced off the bed, he was so eager.

Reaching for the tissues in the drawer of his bedside table, Stiles wiggled out of his jeans, not bothering to untangle his foot from the leg as it caught on his sock. His important bits were a-go. He didn't need anything else aside from his arms. Pushing his boxers down around his knees, Stiles grabbed the hand lotion from under his pillow and maybe sorta exploded it all over his thighs before he could aim it somewhat intelligently. Mopping up the mess with some tissues, his spread some over his fingers and wrapped them around his nearly erect penis. It only took a few strokes before he was fully hard.

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ ,” Stiles hissed, biting his lip in an attempt to keep quiet. His dad wasn't home, but it's not like he couldn't waltz in any second. And while it wasn't very likely, it had happened before and he was not taking that chance. (He liked to think his father took the same precautions. Not that he made it a habit to think about his dad popping a nut.)

He started slow, wanting to tease things out a bit. For a few long minutes all he did was skate his fingers over the shaft, occasionally scraping a trimmed nail along the base. Not enough to hurt; just enough to get a little friction. He didn't get it. Didn't get why, when he got home, he'd had the single-minded urge to jerk off. Didn't get why he was so desperate for it even though he hadn't even been hard.

Stiles didn't understand a lot of things about himself. And it was there, in his bed, gripping his cock lightly with tentative fingers, that he knew himself even less. He figured, hey, he's just a teenager. It's an age of discovery.

Banishing the thought from his mind, Stiles turned over on his stomach. One hand came away from his dick, still slathered in lotion, to clench near his head, elbow pressed into the mattress to keep him up. Biting down on his lips, the boy's breath went still as he found a new angle. Gripping the base of his shaft, he propelled the head slowly along the comforter. And yeah – he was going to have to do laundry later. Oh well. It was worth it.

Feeling himself approach something akin to an edge, Stiles thrust hard against the mattress. Then again. And again. When he remembered to breathe he paused for a moment to gasp for air. But before long he was back at it, snapping his hips forward with the determination of any man shy of orgasm, lungs frozen with the concentration it took to clench his thighs _just_ right.

 _How much is that doggy in the window?_ his phone demanded loudly in a little girl's voice. _The one with the ugly face_.

Stiles ignored the ring tone until it went silent, continuing his bruising pace with the single-minded goal of _orgasm. Please, orgasm_. His hips thrust up into the grip of his hands, desperate for any kind of new friction, before he focused his attention on the head, gripping it tightly and thrusting shallowly into the curve of his palm.

 _How much is that doggy in the window?_ his phone declared once more.

The boy groaned. Grinding desperately against his wrist, he gasped weakly as the phone went silent. Five minutes. No – five _seconds_. That's all he needed. He was so _close._ But _wow_ was that ring tone a boner killer. “ _Come on, come on, come on_!” he muttered excitedly. “Yes, yes, _yes, yes, yes-_ ”

 _How much is that doggy in the window?_ the torture device announced, successfully dragging the teen from the brink of orgasm and denying whatever precipice he was about to reach.

“Fu-uck,” Stiles hissed, rolling over onto his side. “Fuck my life,” he drawled, crawling toward the edge of the bed, being careful of his swollen erection. “Fuck the world,” the boy continued, grabbing at the phone on his bedside table. “But mostly fuck you, Scott,” he told the caller ID darkly. He pressed the button to receive call. “You've reached Stiles' phone. We are currently experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by and-”

“ _Stiles, open the door. I know you're home. Your bedroom light's on!”_

“Dude, I am in the middle of _beating_ it. Couldn't hear that with your little werewolf powers?”

“ _That is_ too much _information,_ ” the older boy groaned over the line.

“Yeah, well, your face is too much information. What's up?”

“ _Should I, uh, come back later?_ ”

Stiles could practically hear him flinch at the word choice. “Don't worry about it. Your ring tone is the greatest boner-killer in history.” The line went dead.

Fighting to get his pants and underwear back where they belonged, the boy wiped himself off with a few tissues and washed his hands before racing downstairs. His phone went off as he opened the front door.

 _How much is that doggy in the window?_ it proclaimed.

Scott frowned, phone in hand. “You're kidding, right?”

“You're the one who got bitten by a werewolf,” Stiles rebuked, standing aside so Scott could enter. “It was this or 'Who Let the Dogs Out.' Now what's so important you had to interrupt a very intimate and overdo conversation with my penis?”

“Dude, just...” Scott groaned. “You're doing the thing again.”

The younger teen closed the door. “Being an ass?”

“Over sharing.”

“Oh...” Stiles frowned. “Executive decision?”

“Executive decision,” the older boy agreed. Grabbing his backpack, he pulled the straps over his shoulders and slid it to the floor. “Now, you're not going to believe this, but apparently there's this stuff that can repel werewolves and... other stuff.” Tugging the mason jar out of his bag, he held it up for the younger boy to see. “It's called Mountain Ash, and you owe me five bucks.”

The human made a face, leaning forward to inspect the jar. “What? So it's, like, anti-supernatural mojo stuff?”

“Well, yeah. Deaton said it had to be an unbroken line and you-”

“Sweet! I am _so_ just – oh my god, Scott, you have to come with me.”

“Come with you? Where?”

“I am _so_ going to the hardware store, getting a really long, tiny little tube, filling it with this shit, and wrapping it around my bed. Come on.”

“Why your bed?”

“Because if Rusalkas are a thing then Noctnisas are _definitely_ a thing and I don't want to die just because a vengeful spirit found out I sleep on my back, okay? And oh my _god_ , Deaton? Deaton told you about this? The Vet is in on the supernatural shit! How weird is that?

“Like, he totally went to college at some point. For animal treatment. Think he knew about werewolves back then? Ooh! Ooh, ooh, ooh! I know! If you ever manage to get yourself horribly mangled we should totally take you to him!”

“What? Why?”

“'Cause he's a vet and it beats just throwing you in the doghouse.” His voice squeaked as he said it, but he looked so proud of his joke. His brilliant, wonderful, awesome, truly _inspired_ joke.

There was a short, awkward silence before Scott pointed out, “We don't have a dog house.”

Stiles buried his face in his hands and groaned. “You just... Oh my god.”

“What?”

“How are we even in the same _generation_?”

…

Twenty-four hours later, Laura guided her car to a slow turn, then a stop so she could park in the McCall driveway. She reached over to the passenger-side seat for her purse, only to pause. Outside there was movement. Nothing supernatural or dangerous in nature; just movement.

She dropped her bag back to the seat, thinking better than to refresh her lipstick. Picking a bit of lint off her jeans, Laura popped open the car door and stepped outside confidently.

“Can I help you?” a woman called from the front porch in scrubs and a pair of crocs. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun at the back of her head.

Laura took a discreet breath, smiling wide as she stepped up to the porch. “You must be Melissa, Scott's mom,” she greeted, offering a hand. “It's nice to meet you.”

“I'm sorry – do I know you?”

“No. Not yet. I'm a friend of Scott's. I'm actually here to pick him up. Is he home?” She stepped up to porch, making to head to the front door.

Melissa's eyes hardened as she tried to pass, then stepped into her path. “What do you want with him?”

The younger woman froze. “What?”

“What, are you deaf?” she snapped. “You're what? Thirty? What could you possibly have to do with my son-”

“Twenty-two, thanks,” Laura put in bitterly.

“-and what, may I ask, have you been doing? He hasn't mentioned anyone lately, much less a woman.”

“I'm Laura,” she surrendered quietly. When Melissa made no move to step aside she added, “Hale.” The Alpha watched with grim satisfaction as recognition flashed through the older woman's eyes. “I moved back to town recently and one of the first people I ran into was Scott. He and Stiles have been showing me around. Adults don't really have the time.”

The nurse bit her lip, then released it slowly, expression apologetic. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get instantly defensive like that-”

Laura shook her head, grinning big. “No, I totally get it. He's your son,” she interjected. “You don't want him hanging around creepy older women. And his dad's MIA, right? You have double the right to get all Mama Bear when you think something's creeping up on him. I get the same way with my little brother.”

There was a short shuffle behind the door – _Scott_ , Laura realized – which made toward them, only to pause as Melissa asked, “how is he, anyway?”

“Grumpy,” she answered quickly, eyes drawn toward the door as the woman's son came out onto the porch.

“Hey, Laura, you're here!” Scott announced loudly, doing an excellent job – horrible in Laura's eyes – of pretending he hadn't heard everything. “Let's go, okay? Stiles is still at the library. Oh and-” He paused, waving a hand between the two women. “Mom, Laura. Laura, Mom. Stiles and I have been showing Laura around town, and this,” he placed his hands on his mother's shoulders, massaging lightly, “is the most beautiful, understanding woman in the universe who doesn't give me a curfew.”

Melissa rolled her eyes. “Nice try. Curfew's at ten. Have fun.”

“It was nice to meet you, Ms. McCall.”

“Bye mom!” Scott bubbled, kissing his mother on the cheek before bounding toward the car.

Laura went to follow him, only to feel a hand on the inside of her elbow; light, but insistent.

“You don't have to lie,” Melissa told her quietly. “How is he, really? Derek. I remember...” She paused, mouth open, to take in the younger woman's expression. “After the fire he didn't want to talk to anyone.”

“He still doesn't.”

The nurse sighed, shaking her head sadly. “Well, I have to get to work. It was nice talking to you.”

“Nice talking to you, too,” the Alpha replied sweetly, making her way down the steps before the older woman. “And don't worry – I'll have him back by nine.”

Melissa grinned sweetly at her before making her way over to her car and driving away.

…

“Do you want me to come in, too?”

“No, I'll only be a second.” Opening the car door, Laura jogged up the steps to the library's double doors, pulling them open. Immediately she focused on Stiles voice, which was off to the side. Why was he talking? It was a library.

"What? Like a date? Because you're gay, and that's great, but I don't really-"

"I meant to talk,” another boy corrected him. And – wow. Laura had never seen a teenager with a more perfect jawline. “It's about that big Chemistry assignment Harris keeps talking about. I saw his partner list, and we're paired up. It'd be nice to get a head start.” Laura frowned as, instead of skipping a beat, his heart seemed to pound faster and faster until she was surprised he wasn't having a heart attack. “Besides, not many people around here can hold a conversation about anything other than Lacrosse."

"Scott can talk about Tetris,” Stiles pointed out.

The other boy's confusion was nearly tangible, even through the wall. "What?"

"Scott really likes Tetris."

"No offense to Scott, but no one really wants to talk about Tetris."

Approaching the two with as blank an expression she could managed, Laura tapped Stiles' shoulder and said, “Time to go. Scott's already in the car.”

Stiles pulled out his phone and grimaced. “Wow – I – didn't know it was that late.”

Eyes flicking from Stiles to the boy, Laura tried not to grin too broadly at the jealously slowly seeping from the teen's companion. “Come on; let's go,” she said, waving for him to follow instead of teasing the boy incessantly. As soon as they were out of earshot she leaned over and whispered, “So.”

The boy looked at her oddly. “What?”

“Got a little crush there?”

Pushing open the library door, Stiles laughed bitterly. “Ha ha, very funny.”

“I'm not joking.”

“He's not my – I'm not gay.”

“I'm not saying you're gay,” she teased. “I'm asking if there's something going on there.”

Stiles stepped outside, a frown on his face. “Everyone likes Danny. He's kind of everyone's type. He's... Danny.”

A led weight suddenly slammed into Laura's stomach at the words. Taking hold of Stiles' shoulder, she pulled him around so he was looking at her. In that instant she became aware of a number of things, from his clammy hands to the slight flush in his cheeks. “Is he your type?”

The boy blinked once, twice, three times as he stared at her in muddled confusion. “Wha-juh-huh?”

“You said Danny's everyone's type. Is he yours?”

He shrugged goofily, making a face. “Well, uh... yeah. I mean, that's totally normal. He's Danny Mehealani. He's super-gorgeous and Hawaiian and really freakin' smart. He's the whole package. I mean, everyone's gotta be attracted to that...” As he went on his voice got shakier and shakier, as if he were losing conviction as the words flew from his mouth. “... right?”

“Stiles, I-” _think you're bisexual_. The words wouldn't come out. She hadn't driven all the way from New York prepared to come face to face with an _actual_ sexual identity crisis. Werewolves she could handle. Tree spirits, while a little outside her expertise, were firmly in her comfort zone. Vengeful ghosts drowning men in a river? Sure. Why the hell not?

Social and psychological issues?

 _Nope_.

 _Nope, nope, nope, nope,_ _**nope** _ _._

That stopped being interesting the moment she graduated from High School and would _continue_ to terrify her for years to come. If Laura had her way, she would avoid the mess altogether for the rest of her pitifully socially deprived life.

Dragging her hands away, Laura muttered, “Okay, I've had enough of teenagers for today,” before walking confidently over to her car, wrenching over to the passenger-side door, and telling Scott firmly, “You're riding with Stiles.”

…

Laura glanced at the two boys riding in the car behind her. A Jeep. Really, she had imagined Stiles would drive something a little less... ostentatious. Then again, that's what he was. Annoying. There. Kind of obvious.

A little too bright and begging to get hit.

She resisted the sudden urge to slam on her breaks.

Grinning maniacally, she tapped her phone and said clearly, “Call Scott.” It quietly dialed, the touchscreen brightly displaying the boy's number. In the car behind her, the boy pulled out his phone and looked at it oddly.

“ _Hello?_ ”

“Put me on speakerphone, will you?”

“ _What_?”

“Just do it.”

Glancing in her rear-view mirror, she watched as Scott fumbled with his phone, then held it in Stiles' general direction.

“ _Hey, Lau-_ ” Stiles began.

“Brake test,” she interrupted, tapping on the pedal and grinning manically as Stiles jerked his Jeep to the side in an attempt to avoid any possible collision. She hung up, then rolled her window down a fraction as they returned to normal driving behavior to savor the boy's frazzled, “Son of a _bitch!_ ”

The urge wasn't gone, but it was sure as hell sated for the time being.

…

“What the hell was that for?” Stiles snapped as soon as Laura and he had pulled into a parking spot, clambering out of the Jeep and eying her like she had actually crashed into him.

“Testing your reflexes,” she lied. “I told you – brake test.”

“ _You could have killed us_.”

“Then don't ride my ass next time,” she snapped, bad mood suddenly back. Honestly, she felt a bit guilty. Stiles was right; someone could have gotten hurt. “One car length for every ten miles per hour. That's the law. Your dad's the Sheriff, right? You should know this.”

“I-”

“Let's just go inside, okay?” Laura motioned toward the Long Term Care Facility with an arm, then stormed away with a huff. She should hear the boys scrambling to follow, locking the Jeep and jogging after her as she stepped through the doors and walked right up to the receptionist. “Hey, Trish,” she greeted.

The receptionist grinned, looking up from her computer screen and adjusting her glasses. “Laura. Hey, girl. You here to see Peter?”

“Yeah.” She bit back a sigh as the boys stumbled into the room, crowding behind her as quietly as she figured they could. “Dragging these two jokers along. We promise to be quiet.”

“Go on back. Just remember visiting hours are almost up. You've maybe got about twenty minutes, so be quick.”

“Thanks.” Smiling once more for good measure, Laura stepped around the desk and set off at a steady pace down the hall until she and her entourage stood before a plain white door. “Now be nice,” she advised them quietly, aiming her comment mostly at Stiles. “He's comatose, but that doesn't mean he can't hear us.”

“How does that even work, anyway?” the younger boy pointed out anyway. “Like, he's a werewolf. Shouldn't a little singeing have healed by now? You guys are, like, immortal, right? With super healing and all that?”

“We're not gods,” Laura pointed out snottily, hand reaching for the knob. “Now _be nice_.”

The boys remained quiet as the door squeaked open, revealing a basic hospital room. A neatly made bed, IV equipment, the limp body of a man with throbbing, ugly scars marring half his face.

Scott winced.

Stiles whistled.

Laura kicked him in retaliation.

The older boy approached the man, smiling respectfully and looking him in the eye. “Hi, Peter,” he greeted quietly. “I'm Scott. It's nice to meet you. I guess... we're Pack?” He leaned in a bit more, settling on the bed to look at him a bit closer, then he froze.

Stiles was there in a second, asking more than a few inappropriate questions about what it was like being in a coma and asking if he could hear him and what it was like being a werewolf who can't do shit.

Scott, despite earlier promises to prevent his friend from being an ass, left the room entirely.

Following right behind him, the Alpha caught him halfway down the hall by the shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head slowly before pausing to nod instead. “He smells familiar,” he told her quietly. “Like – I don't know.”

“Scott-”

“I don't really want to be around people right now. Is that okay?”

“Uh...” For the second time that night, Laura felt overwhelmed. Teenagers. “Yeah, that's fine.”

“I'm going on a walk, then. I can get home myself.”

The woman could only watch on as he turned on his heel and walked out of the care facility.

…

“So what? You just turned tail and ran?” Gail asked, rolling her eyes. “Just because he smelled weird?”

“He smelled _scary_ ,” Scott corrected, shifting to the side so he could move a rock from beneath him and toss it into the river. “Like – I don't know. He just didn't smell right.”

“You know-”

“Could we change the topic, please?” he begged quickly, cutting her off.

“How long do you intend to keep these visits up?”

“How long do you intend to stay here?”

Gail made a humming noise at this, eying Scott up and down with a sly smile before changing the subject once more. “You know, you're much cuter than you were last year. Less bean pole; more muscle man.”

Scott shrugged, grinning wryly. “Supernatural powers will do that to a guy.”

She laughed, dimples going on display. Scott liked dimples. “So, Mr. Werewolf, got your eyes on any of the junior varsity cheer leading squad?”

Shaking his head, the boy turned his eyes from the ghost – _Hadn't Stiles called her a Rusalka?_ – beside him to the water. “Nah. None of them are really... you know.”

The girl frowned. “I know what?”

He shrugged. “None of them are the one.”

Suddenly the girl went still and begin to fade.

Scott blinked. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Gail said quickly, staring down at her knees. “I'm fine, I just...” Turning her eyes back on the boy, she smiled at him almost sadly. “I felt that about Brian, you know?”

“Like what?”

“Like...” She sighed. “Like he was it for me.”

“I don't pretend to know much about relationships, but if they ever hurt you intentionally, they're not it.”

The woman shook her head sadly. “It felt like we were _made_ for each other. How could that not be right?”

Scott felt something in him empty at the question. “If you were made for each other he wouldn't have killed you.”

“I guess...” She was quiet for a long while before answering. “I guess you're right,” she admitted before adding, “ _God_ , love is confusing.”

“Gail, you have to know that you deserve so much better than him.”

“I do?”

“Well, yeah,” he told her quietly. “I'm no expert on love, but... But if I were with a girl I'd let her knew every second of every day that she was important, and I'd make sure she was safe and happy and loved. And she would know that she was the greatest, most fantastic thing in the world to me.” Scott's voice rose as he spoke, hands motioning quickly as he listed off where he would take his hypothetical girlfriend on dates and where they would go to be alone and how often he would put on music and ask her to dance just because he could. He told Gail, who at some point had begun cry small, quiet tears, about how he imagined she would have long hair that smelled kind of like fruit – maybe peach. But that he would be fine no matter how she kept her hair because she would be his, but she was her own person, too. And that he would love her no matter what.

By the time he got around to talking about dragging his hypothetical girlfriend into the middle of the Preserve so they could look at the stars, he glanced over at Gail with wide eyes and shaking hands.

The rock beside him was empty.

Scott frowned, rising to his feet and glancing around. “Gail?” he called, eyes narrowing as he looked into the river and around the bank. “Gail, where are you?”

Gail wasn't there any more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, it's never going to come up again, so just so you all know Abhaya was a Lakhey.  
> Second, Danny and Stiles were Chem lab partners in... I wanna say episode 9. You may know it better as the episode where Derek wears Stiles' orange and blue shirt.


	6. Match This Tempo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that I am writing Stiles true to his portrayal in season one. And in case anyone hasn't picked up on it yet, Stiles is an asshole.

“Oh come on,” Stiles whined, guiding Mario around the curve of the rainbow road. “It's just a hypothetical costume party. And, hypothetically, you _have_ to dress up.”

Laura grunted, attempting to bypass Scott and Stiles in one go, only to be run off the road along with the other werewolf by a very road-rage-prone Mario. “No, I don't.”

Leaning back against the anime skateboarder poster he and Stiles had plastered to his wall in the sixth grade, Scott picked at a string coming loose from the comforter beneath him as waited for Peach to be placed back on the race track. It was no use, though. Stiles was already a third of a lap in front of both him and Laura. Leaning back, he casually watched the other two run laps and instead focused on driving along the red section of the track. He'd hoped werewolf reflexes would make him better at video games. And, well, they did.

Just not on the N64.

Whoever designed the controller either deserved a medal or a kick to the groin.

“But you really should.”

“No, I shouldn't.”

“Why not?” Scott asked, frowning as he nearly crossed entirely into the yellow lane. Passing over the rainbow bridge at last, he threw a glance over at Laura, who was currently fighting with Stiles neck and neck for the position of first after managing to catch him off guard with a shell. “What's wrong with dressing up?”

“Well, Scott, what do you suggest I go as, hmm? A sexy maid or a sexy vampire?” She scoffed, then groaned before gently tossing the controller to the floor as Stiles took first place and began to cheer. “When you're a woman my age, all the costumes available are designed to put your cleavage on display.”

The human grinned. “Yeah, and you don't really have much in that department.”

Smacking the boy over the head, the woman didn't bother with a dry voice or expression as she vehemently snapped, “I should rip your hair out.”

“What was that for?” Stiles sputtered, clutching the back of his head as if wounded. When this earned no reply he glanced back at Scott for help.

“Don't look at me,” the werewolf told him. “You're the one who needs to figure that out.”

“What about executive decision?”

“You've already made an ass of yourself.”

“I'm thirsty,” Laura announced suddenly.

Stiles glanced over, surprised. “Uh, sure. Cool. Soda in the fridge.”

Head tilted, almost as if she were curious, the woman made a dismissive motion with her hand before rising to her feet. “I want water. Come show me where the cups are.”

“What? You know where-”

Grabbing his arm, the Alpha pulled the younger boy up until it was all he could do to stumble to his feet and follow her at a hop. He couldn't balance. Couldn't complain. Couldn't really do much of anything as the woman dragged him toward the door and out into the hallway. All his attention was on not falling. And when she released him to make her way down the stairs he nearly brained himself on the wall.

After he managed to get some kind of balance going, Stiles raced after the woman who was already halfway down the stairs.

“Is water really so important that-” He fell silent as the front door flew open, ushering in a wave of cooler air and the steadily rising voice of his father.

“-and if she's not answering her phone after three hours it's safe to say that she is a person of interest.”

Stiles watched as his father tucked his phone between his shoulder and his ear as his keys clattered for the floor, collapsing into a pile at his feet before he could bend over to grab them. He settled the ring on a hook in the foyer before stepping into the living room. He passed right through without glancing at the pair at the base of the stairs, instead stepping into the kitchen and throwing a, “Hi, Stiles,” in the direction of his son.

There were a few beats of silence that followed as the man spoke briefly with the deputy on the other end of the line before trailing off to mutter, “Just a second.” Wandering slowly out of the kitchen, the Sheriff's eyes slid from Stiles to Laura, then back to his son. “How long has she been here?”

The boy blinked, surprised by the question. “I don't know. What time is it?”

“Six.”

“Five hours.”

“Five hours, huh?” the Sheriff drawled, skeptical. “Five hours doing what.”

“Mario Kart.”

“Five hours. In your room. Playing Mario.” The man pinched the bridge of his nose. Much to the boy's surprise, he didn't make a comment along the lines of his video game intake. “Is there anyone to corroborate your story?”

“Scott's upstairs.”

The Sheriff sighed. “In that case I'll hold off on the talk in which I remind you to _call me_ when you want to have guests over.”

Before Stiles could reply with a smartass remark or a snide comment the man retreated into the kitchen.

Laura, of course, followed.

“She's been here for five hours, apparently,” the Sheriff muttered into the mouthpiece, eyes on the pair as they shuffled over to the cupboard to get a glass. “Two witnesses. Video games. Do you know if anyone's found the nurse yet?”

“Mind telling me why I have to have an alibi?”

The man held up a finger, earning a bristle from the woman. “Send someone to her apartment in the morning if she doesn't show up for her shift. Yeah. Keep me posted.” Dragging the phone away from his ear, the man fixed Laura with a serious expression, but didn't volunteer to speak.

“Why do I need an alibi?” she demanded.

Taking a short, even breath before he opened his mouth, the Sheriff looked Laura in the eye before he spoke. “Peter Hale has been missing from the Intensive Care Ward for three hours.”

Stiles made a face, glancing from Laura to his father, both looking equal parts confused and serious. “Coma patients don't just walk off. We're talking kidnapping...” He paused to mull around a plethora of theories that popped into his head. “And if Laura's a suspect then the kidnapping wasn't caught on camera.”

In seconds Laura was out the door, stomping down the front steps of their porch and stepping into the open air.

The boy's eyes were glued on her as she went, shouting, “Scott, we're leaving,” before chasing after her, grabbing his keys from the hook beside the door.

“And where do you think you're going young man?” his father demanded, eyebrow arched.

“Probably to the hospital,” he called back, sprinting out to his jeep. Before long he had the car unlocked and was climbing into with Scott and Laura. “So where are we headed? The hospital?”

The woman sighed. “Probably the preserve. The hospital will be swarming with law enforcement and eye witnesses right about now. Any scent he may have left will have been lost. We need to figure out where he's been taken since the trail is definitely cold by now.”

“So we need to figure out who took him and where they would drag his scarred little ass.”

Scott frowned. “Yeah, but who would take Peter?”

“Who wouldn't? He's a werewolf. Werewolves have enemies,” Laura pointed out dryly.

“Point taken,” Stiles drawled. “So we'll treat this like a missing person's case. They'll want to avoid cameras and crowded areas. They'll go somewhere out of the way. A place that'll be difficult to track-” He trailed off. “You know what? I have an idea.”

…

It was warm for a December night, for which Stiles was grateful as he sped down the last bit of gently curving road splicing through the borders of the preserve. Rolling down his window, he called out, “Anything?” to the werewolves hanging out the rear windows.

“Nothing,” Scott replied over the roar of the wind. “He hasn't been here.”

“Well he has to be somewhere,” Stiles pointed out bitterly as he pulled a U-turn in front of the charred remains of the Hale house. “Comatose werewolves don't just vanish.”

“Brilliant deduction, Holmes,” the Alpha snapped, crawling back through the window to take a seat. “You should be knighted.”

“I still say we should check in town,” the younger werewolf suggested. “Maybe near the outskirts, where there are warehouses. There are fewer people there; a good place to hide someone.”

“We should check wooded areas first,” Laura told him confidently.

“Well yeah, but whoever took him might be depending on us doing just that,” Stiles pointed out. “They'll want to take him to the last place we would expect to find him, right? We've been assuming they're going to avoid cameras, but they don't work on werewolves, right? Because of your eyes?”

The woman was quiet for a long moment before she made a noise of acceptance. “Fine. You have a point. Let's go.”

Laughing openly in triumph, the younger boy led them out of the preserve, taking in Scott's quiet grin through the rear-view mirror. “So where's this feeling of yours taking us?”

“Through downtown,” he began quietly. “It's the area around the strip mall.”

The younger boy made a face. “That is a pretty shady part of town we're talking about, dude,” he commented, turning off the reserve loop to head into the town. He glanced back at the boy to look him in the eye. “Like, really bad.”

“Eyes on the road,” Laura snapped, shrugging her leather jacket into a more comfortable position. “How long will it take to get there?”

“Fifteen minutes, max. Ten if I ignore a few traffic laws,” he pointed out. “Think you could be my police scanner for the day?”

“Stiles.”

“What?”

“Not a police scanner.”

…

When Laura opened the window in downtown, she immediately leaned out and pointed to the left. “That way!”

“Did you catch the scent?” Stiles asked, throwing on his blinker and glancing back at her. “And get your head back in. We're in town, now.”

“Park here,” she demanded, crawling back through her window and motioning toward a packed parking lot. As soon as Stiles pulled over she yanked the door open as was out of the car. By the time the other boys made it out of the car she had already raced up and down the block before coming back to them with a strained expression. “It's a club. And if whoever took Peter is in there we have to blend in. We can't let them know we're here.”

“Blend in?” Scott commented, incredulous. “We're not exactly dressed for a club.”

Laura eyed them both quietly. “Well, you would be a quick fix, Stiles...” She sighed. “I can't even imagine how we would fix him.”

“Fix?” the boy in question scoffed. “Nothing's wrong with my clothes. I look good. Don't I look good, Scott?” A long, awkward silence followed. Stiles stared hard at his friend, making a motion with his hand from the older boy and then to Laura. “Scott, tell the woman.”

“Take your shirt off,” the woman said pointedly in Scott's direction, holding her hand out for the article. It was quickly stripped off to reveal-

“When the _hell_ did you get an eight-pack?” Stiles whined. “That is so unfair.”

Wadding up the shirt, Laura pulled open the Jeep's back door and tossed it onto the seat. She motioned toward Stiles with a hand. “We can't do the same for you, obviously. What are you wearing under the... oh god.” She reached forward, undoing the buttons on Stiles' shirt to reveal a blocky, shapeless Iron Man tee-shirt. “It's worse than I thought.”

“Nothing's wrong with my shirt!” Stiles defended.

“His pants don't help matters,” Scott pointed out dully.

“ _Scott_!” the younger boy squeaked indignantly, voice cracking up through the registers. “And what's wrong with my pants?”

Laura sighed. “Nothing else to be done,” she muttered, reaching down and taking hold of the hem of her shirt.

“What are you _doing_?” Throwing his arms over his buzzed head, Stiles made a show of covering his eyes. “Don't take your clothes off!”

Scott looked at his friend oddly, glancing between the hands covering more of his buzz cut than his face to the woman staring at him oddly. “She's wearing an undershirt.”

Easing his hands down, the boy peered out from behind hesitant fingers to look at the Alpha in question. “Oh,” he mumbled, taking in her well-fitted white tank top and incredulous expression. “I, uh... yeah.”

The woman tossed her over shirt at him with a grimace. “Put this on.”

“Put it – what?” he gaped. He angled his face toward the shirt, openly grimacing at it as he announced, utterly aghast, “It's _pink_.”

“So what?”

“Pink is girly.”

She sighed. “Okay, first off, being girly isn't a bad thing. Second off, and I shouldn't have to mention this by the way, pink used to be a color almost exclusively for men. _Blue_ was the girl color. Third, _girly is a social construct_. I highly doubt all the colors in the world got together and decided one day that Pink would and should only be worn by women because it wasn't good enough for men.”

“But-”

“No buts. Put it on.”

Glancing to Scott for help, Stiles made a show of his indignation with a single look.

The older boy rolled his eyes. “It's just a shirt, dude. Seriously. One hour wearing pink isn't going to kill you.”

He turned his gaze from Scott, to Laura, and then to the shirt. Without any other option, Stiles heaved a sigh and stripped out of his Iron Man tee-shirt to replace it with Laura's.

“Hmm...” the woman hummed. Her eyes slid over where it drew tight at his waist and plunged into the line of his collarbone in a shallow V. “I guess it'll have to do.”

“This won't stay _down_ ,” the boy complained immediately, tugging at the hem as it rose up above his belt as he tried to take a step and the fabric tugged at his shoulders.

“Welcome to women's fashion,” the Alpha told him haughtily. Tossing the rest of their things into the back of the Jeep, she set off toward the club with a satisfied swing in her step.

The boys trailed after like the strings of a kite, walking slowly in the woman's wake as she approached the bouncer and... hugged him?

“Jason, long time no see!” she exclaimed, drawing him into his arms. “It's been what – three years?”

“Sounds about right,” the man noted, looking a bit shell-shocked. “It's good to see you.” He glanced between her and the boys, mouth drawn in something between a smile and discomfort. “You want in?”

She nodded eagerly, motioning towards the teens behind her with a grin. “It's their first night 'out,' you know?”

Making a noise of acknowledgment, Jason's grin grew fond as he looked over at them. “I remember that night. Making it memorable?”

“As much as possible,” the Alpha replied quietly. “Can we go in? They're minors.”

The man nodded. “Sure. I just have to stamp their hands so the bartender knows.”

Hands were stamped, bodies were ushered, fees were paid, and before the boys knew what was going on they were thrown into a somewhat clear space beside a large, packed dance floor; concrete bouncing beneath their feet with every thick beat pouring from the large stereos set all through the wide room. Scantily clad men danced everywhere they could see; tanned and fit and very much not surrounded by women.

“Dude, I think we're in a gay club,” Scott shouted over the pounding music.

Stiles made a face from behind a mass of transvestites petting at his buzz cut, cooing about how he had a wonderfully shaped head that would be _perfect_ for a wig. “Nothing escapes those keen senses of yours, huh?”

Further in the club, Laura laughed morbidly before waving Scott over. “Come on, let's find him.”

The werewolf frowned. “What about Stiles?”

“He'll be useless in here,” his Alpha replied. She stepped over to Stiles with a grin. “We're going to look for him. You go set up shop by the bar.”

Stiles turned his attention away from the cloud of transvestites long enough to shout, “Why?”

“We're going to track him down; just keep an eye out for anything strange.”

The boy watched Laura walk away without another word before making his way to the bar like he had been told. He settled onto a red seat and... hesitated. He had a fake ID. He could get a beer. But... She told him to keep an eye out.

Flagging over the bartender, a man with friendly brown eyes and curly hair, Stiles managed to ask over the noise, “Do you guys have Mountain Dew?”

With a subtle shake of his head, the man replied, “We have Pepsi and Coke.”

“I'll take a coke,” he informed the bartender. It felt like everyone was looking at him. And then-

Whoa, pecs.

A different, shirtless, meticulously groomed bartender with the most severe pecs Stiles had ever seen settled a glass in front of him.

“How much do I owe you?” Stiles asked, suddenly off guard.

“It's been paid for,” Shirtless Super-Pecs MacBartender replied, waving one hand behind him toward a man in a red tank top.

The man raised his drink, seemingly in greeting of Stiles, before he seemed from freeze in place.

A wave of oddly delicious smelling perfume wafted through his nose, and the teen nearly flinched as he took a suck on the straw and turned to face the cloud of Transvestites that had descended.

“What's your name, honey?” the leader asked.

“Uh... Stiles,” he mumbled, easing back as the drag queen took a seat beside him. “Yours?”

“Call me Gloria. Now what interests you, Stiles?”

“I, uh...” He paused. It was a broad term, “interest,” and he certainly had a few of those. But he didn't want to say video games or bad 90's movies or that he was really passionate about masturbation now that his medication had evened out. So, before he could stop it, he'd managed a stumbled, “Mythical creatures.”

“You don't say?” the glorious blond(e?) transvestite cooed. “I happen to be getting a degree in East Asian studies at Berkeley, with a focus on Mythology.”

And wow, Stiles did not see that coming.

“Really?” he gasped, pleasant surprise flooding his expression. “Wow! I – that is so cool!”

Gloria smiled. It was a shy sort of thing that Stiles didn't expect. “Thanks. Would you... like to chat?”

“Would I?!” Stiles gaped, eyes wide as he looked her straight in the face. “Hell yes!”

Sweeping her hair out behind her, Gloria ordered her “usual” from the bartender, who gave her a sweet smile and a “be right up,” before leaning against the counter and facing the boy with a wide red grin. “So what cultures do you focus on?”

“Mostly Poland,” the teen replied eagerly, oblivious to the way the bar's occupants had begun to edge away from their group. “Specifically magical creatures, though.”

Surprise flickered across the transvestite's face as she looked down at him. And wow, was she tall, even sitting down. “I half expected you to say Greek, to be completely honest.”

He rolled his eyes. “Please. I learn about that in English class. I don't need to spend _more_ time looking them up. This is my free time, thanks, and I'd rather not spend it learning about things I'm going to learn anyway.” Taking a long sip of his drink, he tried not to laugh as something occurred to him. He dragged his mouth away from the straw and grinned. “Besides, what are the chances that someone who says they like mythology, and said that Greek is their favorite, actually bothered to read anything of any other origin?”

Gloria moaned, earning a series of chuckles from the other queens, who had broken into their own conversations. “Oh, don't I know it, honey. Sometimes it feels like, as far as the world is concerned, the only tree spirits are nymphs. Whenever I bring up honest to god Japanese tree spirits people immediately think of the figures of woman all half-goats want to bang. It's a travesty, I'm telling you. Absolute travesty.”

“I get that,” Stiles volunteered, glancing around curiously as the bass suddenly cut out and the music stopped.

“They're changing DJs,” Gloria told him as he glanced around. Before long the music started back up and the pounding on the dance floor continued.

“Right. Yeah. Okay,” he mumbled. “Anyway, I get where you're coming from. Except I'm kind of lucky. A friend of mine lives and breathes mythology.” _Literally_ , he added mentally. “So when I mentioned Leszys to her a while back she knew exactly what I was talking about.”

Gloria's grin spread until it was practically splitting her face. “What's a Lesher?”

“A Polish tree spirit,” the boy shouted back. “They trap you in forest labyrinths until you turn your clothes inside out and switch your shoes. If you befriend one they protect your sheep.”

“That's-”

“Stiles?”

Stiles jumped, turning so fast he nearly fell off his chair to face the boy who looked at him oddly from among the parted cloud of transvestites. “Danny? What are you doing here?”

“I-” _could say that same to you_. The boy bit back the words as he glanced around. “I come here a lot,” he shouted instead. “You want to dance?” The boy glanced between Stiles and the small crowd of drag queens surrounding him, as if to make a point.

“I'm not-” the teen began, only to be cut off by a playful elbow as Gloria giggled bemusedly at his side. “What-”

“Don't mind us, sweetheart,” she teased, leaning forward to whisper into his ear. “Go on. Dance. He's _cute_.”

For a long moment Stiles could only gape. Did they think...

They really thought...

Before he could really think more on it and realize that yes, of _course_ they thought he was gay – he was in a _gay club_ , thank you very much – he was being jostled toward Danny by wandering hands and not-so-subtle compliments on his ass through his “shapeless, horrendous jeans.”

By the time he was deposited in front of the older boy, Stiles could only mutter, “I've been informed I shouldn't dance in public.” By Scott, no less than a week before. And Scott was good about these sorts of things. Usually.

Danny rolled his eyes. “It's not that hard,” he drawled before catching Stiles' wrist and dragging him away from the bar and onto the dance floor. By the time they arrived in a slightly cleared section he had dropped the other teen's wrist and begun to subtly hop to the beat of the over-encompassing music.

Leaning closer so the older boy could hear him, Stiles loudly demanded, “What are you doing?”

“Dancing,” was the immediate reply. It came in the form of a whisper, blown directly into the teen's ear with a hand cupped around the shell to keep the noise of the club out.

The shiver that raced up Stiles' spine at this was pointedly ignored. “That's not what I meant,” he whispered back, adopting the other boy's method and cupping his fingers against Danny's scalp. “I meant why did you ask me to dance?”

Danny laughed as he pulled away, giving Stiles a long look before motioning to the transvestites with a sour expression. The younger boy could barely make out, “Saving you from unusual company,” over the sudden onslaught of bass.

“What? The Ladies?” he shouted back, surprised. “Nah; they're cool. Cooler than cool. From what I've seen, which isn't much, Gloria is freaking awesome, dude. And I don't know about the rest of them, but if they're half as cool as her then I just made some really great friends.”

The older boy watched him curiously, shock plain on his face, as the song picked up the crowd surged around them. There was suddenly so much energy on all sides, pressing them in and forcing them closer so they wouldn't get separated.

“I guess we should start dancing,” Stiles offered weakly.

Danny laughed, then... “Oh god,” he muttered as he watched the younger boy open with the _sprinkler_ of all things. His hand came up to the taller teen's shoulder, bringing him to an abrupt stop. “Just – follow my lead, okay?”

“What? Why?”

“You know that person who said you shouldn't dance in public?”

“Yeah?”

Without explaining any further, Danny dragged Stiles in until they were nearly toe to toe, and his hands slid down to his hips. “Start here,” he told him lowly, next to his ear. “Move them back and forth, then side to side. Try to make it as smooth a movement as possible.”

“What about my arms?”

“Worry about your arms later,” the boy informed him, thumbs sliding into the available belt loops as if on instinct. “Just focus on your hips for now.”

And that's just what Stiles did. And when Danny told him to look at what people around them were doing and imitate that once his hips were in order, the boy smirked – _smirked_ , that same look he got before something _really bad_ was going to go down – before he turned to Danny with a sheepish grin. Within seconds the older boy became aware of a number of things.

Arms were around his neck.

Stiles had very soft hands.

A nose brushed his, slightly oily and with a single pimple nestled in the curve of a nostril.

Stiles was only three inches shorter than him when he didn't slouch.

The pink shirt brushing against his own had ridden up.

Stiles' hips had a very slight, but well-tapered V even if he wasn't exactly fit.

Breath was feathering across his chin.

Stiles lips seemed to be made for everything that wasn't beautiful and right.

Hips moved against his, almost teasing.

Stiles was a very, _very_ fast learner.

An image of Stiles in the library came unbidden, when the boy had been buried in one of the books with a strange mix of concentration and amusement on his face while he translated bits of Polish into a notebook. Suddenly air was hard to get. It wasn't enough. It just _wasn't enough_ , and Danny didn't quite know how to handle this. The strange – _very_ strange – sort of gravity he'd felt coming from Stiles before had confused him, but to suddenly have this paired with arousal was a very different ballgame. Stiles, the kid who accidentally confused glue for mayonnaise in second grade. The preteen who'd talked about the mechanics of erectile dysfunction for a _Math_ class in seventh grade, going far beyond the five minute minimum presentation time and taking up well over half the hour allotted to their class.

The sophomore who was literally _infamous_ for masturbating loudly in the boy's bathroom _at school_.

To be honest, Danny was both incredibly disappointed and disgusted with himself. But with Stiles hips brushing his and arms dragging him forward to step with him, step _along_ with him to an actual godforsaken _rhythm_ , he couldn't bring himself to care. Stiles was...

Stiles was just grazing against him, quick and confident and teasing. But there was a question beneath his expression. Something just beyond Danny's understanding that hovered just beyond reach.

Stiles looked almost _confused_ by what he was doing, except he was _loving_ it.

Stiles was dragging his nose along Danny's cheek and swaying his hips from side to side like he'd been doing it for years.

Stiles was _amazing_.

For a long moment that followed he found himself panicking as Stiles pulled away with a laugh. Had he been too obvious? Had he rushed things? Was Stiles even _into_ guys?

 _Had Stiles felt his erection_?!

The last possibility brought the panic full circle, and he quickly squashed it as the boy walked away. Panic wouldn't help. Panic never helped.

“Why are you here?” he found himself asking, only to realize the song had come to an end and the boy had been making his way back to the bar. Suddenly Danny felt... He didn't know how he felt. It was a mix of surprised, jealous, and inadequate. He hadn't known someone could make him feel like that with one dance.

Or with one look.

Stiles had fixed him with an expression somewhere between surprise and confusion, glancing from Danny to the hand on his arms and back again. And wow – when had that happened? “I'm with a friend. She's off with Scott looking for someone. I'm actually not supposed to leave the bar.”

And that was it. Danny felt like a jerk. And yet beneath the layer of self-disgust and disappointment there was a bit of hope. Because before him stood Stiles with something pointing a thick line toward his pocket, and then he was turning and walking awkwardly back toward the bar.

The hope didn't last long as a hand shot out and dragged him forcefully into the crowd and toward one of the walls. Danny was pressed against a wall and a beautiful woman stood before him, nearly as tall as his collarbone and grip making it very clear against his wrists that she could definitely leave him, if not broken, at least severely battered. But what began as rough treatment slid away with her hands, and he looked at him evenly before shouting over the music, “So, Stiles.”

Danny frowned. “What about him?”

“You know he's obsessed with Lydia Martin, right?”

“Of course not,” he drawled sarcastically, looking the woman dead in the eye and leaning confidently against the wall to stare her down. “I'm a complete idiot.”

The woman grinned. “I like you. Ballsy.” Offering a hand, she waited for him to shake it as she announced, “I'm Laura. You're Danny, right?”

Danny chose to ignore the gesture. “You're not my type.”

“And you're not mine, jail bait,” the Alpha scoffed back, dropping the hand with a mild look of irritation. “Now, mind telling me why you're suddenly interested in Stiles?”

“I'm not-”

“Oh, don't lie to me,” she drawled, settling beside him on the wall. “I'm going to have to put up with his sexuality crisis, not you. So if you could tell me what you _intend_ with him it would be very much appreciated so I can tell him whether or not to _avoid you like the plague_. So either acknowledge your raging hard on or _kindly_ fuck off.”

The boy is quiet for a long moment before asking politely, "Do you draw?"

Laura straightened against the wall, suddenly alert. "I used to."

"Imagine you're in a strange place – like you're out of town for an event – and you don't know anyone. But you see someone across the room with a sketchbook." He turned to the woman long enough to catch her nod before barreling on. "There's always this undeniable urge to go up to them and figure out what they're drawing."

"Yeah, and then you find out they suck and it doesn't matter."

"But what if they don't?” he suggested. “What if what they're doing is right up your alley? Or what you wish was your alley? And what if that person is someone you've known for years and you had no idea they drew in the first place?"

Laura made a face at this. "So, what, you realize Stiles can draw and suddenly he's on the menu?"

"More like I wasn't aware he even owned a sketchbook."

Pinching the bridge of her nose, the woman sighed. "Okay, so what's the real-life equivalent of this drawn out metaphor, pun not intended?"

Danny turned his attention back to the dance floor, sliding his thumbs in his pocket before his gaze slid over Stiles at the bar. "Mythology."

“You're interested in Mythology?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I wish I was.”

For a short moment Laura could swear there was something more to the boy's tone than envy. Something like disappointment or fear. But as the music kicked up, she decided to let it go.

…

Stiles had begun to fall asleep against the bar when Scott finally tapped him on the shoulder and told him, “The scent went cold; we're heading home.”

…

The following morning brought chilly winds and a spattering of rain that stopped before Scott was even awake. At his bedside, the alarm clock blared to life with a loud _click_ before a radio host stepped into his bedroom.

“- _is 95-7, Arcata, Fieldbrook, Korbel, and Beacon Hills. Good morning! I hope everyone's had their coffee, because you're going to need it. Today is Monday, December 13_ _th_ _, and we've got overcast skies with a chance of rain. It's a crisp forty-eight degrees out there, so make sure to wrap up, folks. Keep your umbrellas handy. Now for the news. A local Beacon Hills man who had gone missing recently resurfaced in the same river Gail Winters was found murdered two months ago. This is the fourth body to be found in as many months, and officials are in talks about roping off the area as it is becoming a crime hot spot. However, police speculate-_ ”

Scott smacked a hand over the clock and was met with the crack of plastic and a sharp pain in his hand. Shooting up, he groaned as he realized he's broken the display. He sat there for a long moment, waiting for his hand to heal, before he scraped up the motivation to crawl out of bed. This he did with a heavy groan as he fell gracelessly onto the carpet in a mess of blankets and teenager.

Monday.

Joy.

Peter was still missing, Stiles was acting weird, and it was Monday. Monday meant school. School means students. Students meant hundreds of kids surging around him in an undignified mess of noise and distraction and overstimulation.

Somehow, Scott knew it was going to be a bad day.

Rising off the floor with a grimace, the boy made his way to the bathroom, slipped out of his clothes, and dropped himself into the shower. Werewolf or not, he didn't have any energy to deal with anything. Searching for someone was _hard_. Especially when trying to avoid the attention of the police and a possible kidnapper. And really, a _kidnapper_? While Scott had been made aware of the existence of Hunters, he hadn't thought he'd ever have to run into any.

Especially ones that prayed on coma patients.

Seriously, though, who would kidnap a comatose werewolf? It just didn't make any _sense_.

After turning it on, Scott sat quietly for a long moment, crouched under the spray with a stoic expression. The water was warm. Comforting.

But then it went cold.

And then there were hands on his shoulders, pushing him down, forcing him deeper, deeper, _deeper_ into the creek and-

Scott shot up, colliding painfully with the shower wall with a desperate wail. He glanced around worried that he might catch a glimpse of transparent hands or floating strands of hair. But all he could see was the neat interior of his bathroom. The wide counter, the toilet (which had been recently scrubbed going by the lingering tinge of Comet,) the pile of towels his mother had left for him, his shampoo...

Nothing.

He was alone.

Shutting off the water, Scott slid back into a sitting position, wrapped his arms around his knees, and shook.

…

Skidding to a stop before one of the racks out front of the school, Scott set about tying his bike up. Once through the frame, once through either of the tires, and then he was good. Clicking the lock into place, he stepped away just in time to nearly collide with none other than Jackson Whittemore.

“Watch where you're going,” the blond snapped, stepping around him as if he were contaminated.

Scott watched him walk off, the usual self-important swing in his step, before following at a slower pace.

The hallways were chaos.

Around him a hundred bodies surged, jostling him back and forth, side to side, and leaving him with no space to move. Dozens of voices crowded and blended and bounced from wall to wall, room to room, until he could hardly thing. The full moon was an entire week away, but that didn't matter. He was having issues.

 _Focus on something_ , Laura had told him. _Focus on one thing. It can be a sound, or an object, or a person; anything that can hold your attention._

So Scott listened. He tried to pick out a single voice in the throng of people rushing around him like water around a stone. A few of the other kids accidentally ran into him, but- _there_!

“ _I've lived in a lot of places. My dad's job keeps him from settling down in just one place_.”

It was a new voice. A _nice_ voice. Probably a boundary exception or a new student. But the moment Scott focused on heir voice everything else fell away. Before he could listen in on any more someone crashed into him, nearly knocking the boy to the floor. Suddenly the chaos was back, surrounding him on all sides and leaving him reeling. Gone was the voice and the focus and down the world came, crashing and shoving in an horrible cacophony of movement as students surged through the front doors.

Allowing the crowd to push him forward, Scott carefully maneuvered his way toward English class, keeping his eye out for Stiles all the while. They were usually lucky enough to run into one another before class, but this apparently wasn't the case. Settling into his usual desk, Scott threw looks left and right, watching as students took their seats beside and in front of him, eagerly awaiting Stiles' arrival. And yet even as the bell rang there was no one in the seat directly behind his.

“I hope everyone did their reading last night,” the teacher called out, “because we are opening with a discussion.” There was a collective groan from the class. Their teacher simply grinned. “A Rose for Emily. Now, can anyone tell me about the Rose in question?”

“ _Let's hope Beacon Hills is your last stop for a while_.”

There was a voice just outside the door, and for a moment Scott thought he was hearing things. But then the door was being eased open and the assistant principal was leading a girl into the class.

And Scott felt lost.

“Everyone, this is Allison Argent,” he managed to pay attention long enough to catch. “She just transferred here from San Francisco. I hope you can all give her a warm welcome.”

His heart was pounding, fingers tingling, knees throbbing, head reeling.

How.

How had he existed before then?

Scott felt so full he thought for a moment he would burst.

…

The moment Scott arrived home he pulled out his phone and called Stiles. He couldn't wait to tell him about Allison. About her hair. About her _smile_. About the way she shifted from foot to foot as she lied to _Lydia Martin's face_ about family night to avoid a party. And while Scott hadn't managed to _actually_ talk to her, he'd still heard her voice. And, dear Lord, her _voice_.

“Stiles-” Scott began.

“ _You've reached the phone of Stiles Stilinski_ ,” the boy said from the other end of the line.

“What-”

“ _We are experiencing technical difficulties at the moment. Please hang up and leave me alone._ ”

The line clicked twice, then went dead.

Pulling the phone away from his face, Scott stared at it with open, unresolved confusion.

What was going on?

 


	7. The Labyrinth Will Keep You Safe

Laura coveted school days like kids coveted weekends. School days meant Stiles and Scott were too tired from class or too busy with homework to bug her in any fashions beyond dropping by and raiding her kitchen for Cheetos and juice boxes. (Scott liked apple, Stiles liked grape. Laura herself would open one of each and sip them simultaneously because for some reason the company who made the juice boxes used a different preservative for apple-grape, and it tasted really shitty.)

Naturally, a phone call on a Monday night wasn't the first thing she expected. Usually Harris would load them up with periodic table memorization (which no one actually took seriously until the Friday Pop Quiz) and enough reading to make a librarian cry. Thus Scott's mumbled insistence that, “ _Something's wrong with Stiles_ ,” threw her off guard.

“What's going on?” Adjusting the phone between her shoulder and her ear, Laura peered at her computer screen, working through a bit of code as she listened to the sudden stream of words bubbling from the phone.

“ _I don't know, okay? He wasn't at school, and when I called he did that thing he does whenever he's in the middle of something, except he wasn't, and I know that because I called his dad and he says he took a day because he wasn't feeling good_.”

“And this is my problem... why?”

“ _Because he's pack_.”

The short silence that followed was a heavy one. One that weighed on Laura's heart like a ton of bricks, pushing it down to her esophagus and crushing it bit by bit. “You shouldn't know me this well, Scott,” she complained quietly.

A noise of interest was made. “ _Huh_?”

…

The problem with arriving at the Stilinski household unannounced is that the Sheriff won't let you in.

“I've already been through this with Scott, okay? Stiles isn't feeling well. He doesn't-”

“Sheriff Stilinski, your son may or may not be having a _sexual identity crisis_ ,” Laura stated slowly, emphasizing the last few words by their syllables. “You have three choices right now. You can let me in so I can talk him through it, take care of it yourself, or ignore the problem and wait for it to go away.”

_Slam_.

That was a door.

With no other option, Laura retired to her car, drove three blocks down, and ran back to the house to scale the side and climb in through Stiles' window.

Fighting a sudden wave of annoyance, Laura knocked twice on the glass before sliding it up – why wasn't it locked? – and letting herself in. “Stiles?” she called quietly, peering into the room with a hesitant expression. “Stiles, is everything okay?”

“No,” he muttered miserably from the bed.

It took everything in the Alpha not to roll her eyes, staring over at the human who dared invade her free day with his teen angst. “Seriously. What's wrong?” she asked, though she knew exactly what was going on. A few steps brought her into the room, and she approached the bed with a wary expression before... stopping. She glanced down, not entirely surprised to find the thin tube of mountain ash had been replaced around Stiles bed.

“How do you know if you're gay?” Stiles muttered quietly. “Like... I still like girls. I _really_ like girls. But Danny-”

The woman forced down the returning wave of annoyance and instead made a gentle shushing noise, silencing him. “Hey, don't worry about labels right now. You've got your whole life to find something you think defines you, or not to. No one needs a label. They're nice and comforting, but ultimately confining. You like Lydia and you like Danny. No big deal. They're attractive people. Let's just leave it at that, okay?”

“But-”

“Oh my _God_ ,” she groaned, what little patience she had suddenly gone. “Listen; two months ago you found a girl's dead body in the woods. You know what you did the next day? You  _went to school_. And today you skipped that, ignored Scott, and have locked yourself behind a ring of mountain ash so we can't drag your sorry ass away! All because you have a crush on a guy! What the hell?!

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something normal! Play video games. Read some weird-ass fanfiction. For the love of God, _masturbate_ or something. I can usually smell it like a cloud around you, and you have no idea how much it is seriously creeping me out that I can tell that you haven't been. This is something I never wanted to know, okay?

“Being a little gay isn't the end of the world. Danny's perfectly fine with it. Not forty-eight hours ago you were in an entire warehouse full of people perfectly fine with it. I'm sick of you doing your little hypocrisy dance, okay? You will complain forever about a pink shirt, then spend all your time at a club talking about supernatural shit with a bunch of transvestites. You'll tease Danny on the dance floor, with your ass I might add, but the moment _you_ are _any_ kind of gay you shut down like someone shot a puppy in front of you. Grow a fucking backbone, would you?”

The boy shot to his feet, staring down at Laura from where he stood on the mattress, stooped beneath the ceiling. “It's not that simple,” he nearly shouted, just as angry as her. “I can't be gay, okay?”

“No one's saying you're gay!” she hissed back, glancing toward the door before listening intently to the Sheriff on the main floor. Thankfully, he seemed to assume Stiles was on the phone. “And no one's saying you have to be! And if you're thinking that, then you're stupid, okay? So stop.”

“I can't, okay? I can't stop thinking about it,” he squeaked, voice reedy. “Mom...” The boy cut off, his face falling and falling and _falling_ to the point where Laura thought it might slide off entirely.

Laura tried to recall Stiles' mother, vaguely remembering a woman named Mrs. Stilinski working for the preservation as a ranger. And... there wasn't much else to think of.

And then all she could think of was how little Stiles mentioned her.

“I just... I've been thinking about my mom lately,” Stiles admitted quietly. “Like, would she be proud of me? For liking guys. I mean, I _know_ she wouldn't be proud of the pranks or the masturbation or the whole 'agnostic' thing, but this... This is something I can't just up and change, you know? I mean, not that you can change religions at the drop of a hat, but that's the thing. Mom was really religious. Went to church every Sunday and Wednesday and taught little kids the bible.

“I was one of those kids, you know? I remember one day in class we broached the subject of being intimate with someone, and she was very specific that is was between a man and a woman. And that masturbation was a sin. Throughout the entire speech she was throwing these glances at the other teacher, and to this day I don't know whether or not it was because the other teacher was gay or because they married according to the church. I didn't even think to ask.”

For a long time all Laura could do was stare at Stiles as he trailed off, falling to his knees, then into a sitting position before crossing his legs. It certainly wasn't something she expected. Wasn't the “but I'm not gay” speech she had imagined him giving her. That he wasn't this stereotype or that stereotype, and thus couldn't be gay.

It was much more than that.

“Did your mother love you?” Laura hadn't known she had spoken until after Stiles looked at her, surprised.

He made a face, as if he was insulted she felt the need to ask. “Of course she did. She was my mother.”

Smiling slowly, the Alpha looked him calmly in the eye and told him quietly, “Then she would be proud of you.”

Stiles' bottom lip quivered as he mumbled in the most insecure voice she had heard from him, “Really?”

“Yes.” She rolled her eyes at his relieved expression. “Now, I swear to God, if you don't make a smart ass remark in the next fifty seconds I'm going to think you're possessed or something.”

The boy snickered. “You _wish_ you could possess this,” he teased, making a thrusting motion with his hips and earning a groan of annoyance.

“No one should have the ability to bounce back that quick,” the woman complained, mock-covering her eyes and stumbling back to the window. “And the next time you're in a bad mood, don't blow off Scott,” she stage-whispered behind her as the Sheriff's footsteps started up the stairs. “I shouldn't have to do this again.” Hopping out the window, she threw a wave of her shoulder and jumped to the ground below.

Waving at her back, the boy grinned as his father knocked and pulled open the door to stare around the room, utterly perplexed. “I could have sworn I heard voices up here.”

Stiles grinned. “You did. I was talking to myself.”

The Sheriff snorted, an amused grin spilling across one cheek. “And I thought you weren't feeling well today.”

“A day of sleep did me good.”

“Well, as long as you're doing better. And don't think you'll be missing school again tomorrow, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Sheriff kept a sharp eye on his son before easing out of the room.

As the door slid closed, Stiles' grin steadily fell until his face was a blank mask of indifference. Falling back on his bed, the bow stared up at the ceiling with wide eyes, hands clasped together over his chest. For a moment he imagined he were being laid in a coffin. That they were taking him out to be buried and everything he was seeing was just a dream in his own head.

…

“C'mon, Scott. Let's head out.” Picking beneath her nails, Laura leaned against the rail of the stairs in her foyer, comfortably wedging her elbow in the curve of the wood. “The moon's been out for a while now. Honestly, you won't need a jacket.”

“ _But it's Winter_ ,” the boy shouted back from the second floor, voice bounding down the stairs and through the room. “ _I do get cold, you know_.”

The woman groaned. Stepping away from the rails, she stomped over to the door with an exasperated sigh. “I'm leaving,” she shouted, yanking the door closed behind her as she stepped out of the house.

“ _Wait_!” Scott called after her, the beating of his feet against the stairwell nearly a whisper even to Laura's ears through the thick oak door. Within seconds the teen had bounded onto the porch, wide-eyed and arms up as he threw the door open and slammed it behind him. “Okay,” he relented loudly, “but if I wind up sick or anything it's on you.”

“Fine then," the woman drawled. “I will take full responsibility in the event that anything bad happen to you over the course of the next twelve hours. Happy?”

“Very.”

“Then let's _go_ already.” Making her way over to the car, Laura unlocked the doors and motioned for Scott to hop in the passenger seat.

The boy paused with the door half open to ask, “Can I drive?”

“No.”

…

Bisexual.

_Bisexual_.

_**Bisexual**_.

No matter how many times Stiles thought of the word, it didn't fit. Didn't sound any less weird. Like, that was him. He was _bisexual_. And while it made a lot of sense, it didn't. Not really. If he was _bisexual_ why had he never been attracted to Scott? Or Jackson? Scott was sweet and the best friend in the universe, and Jackson was, according to sources, very nice to look at. Maybe they weren't his type.

_Or_ , he realized a while later, _maybe it's just like how it is with being attracted to girls._

For a long moment he let this stew, flat against his bed with his eyes on the ceiling. _That's it_ , he realized. _Being gay doesn't actually make you any different from being straight._

It was a strange thing to realize, seeing as he had made such a large distinction between them until just that moment. Being gay didn't necessarily mean popping a boner in the locker room. It didn't mean every man was attractive, just as being straight didn't make every woman a walking pinup.

For half a second he wondered what his mother would think of this revelation.

Suddenly he was up, grabbing a sweatshirt and pulling it over his head. He stuffed his feet in his shoes. He kicked the door open. He nearly ran down the stairs, pausing only to get his balance as he nearly pitched to the floor before resuming his pace because he needed _air_. He needed _out_.

“Where do you think you're going, young man?”

The boy froze as his father's voice, originating from the living room couch where the man sat with a light beer and a crossword puzzle. “Uh... On a walk?”

“Uh-huh. Stiles, it's December. It's, what, forty degrees out there?” his father pointed out warily. “And it's _raining_.”

“I'm bundled up,” he argued, motioning towards his hoodie.

“Stiles-”

“Just please don't ask questions,” the boy begged. “I need to clear my head, okay? I'll be back in an hour.”

The Sheriff froze at his son's tone, and for a long moment he didn't reply. When he did his voice was hesitant. “If you're not back in forty-five minutes I'm sending out a search party.”

“I'll be back in an hour.”

…

He would not be back in an hour.

Okay, so maybe Stiles hadn't really thought this through. He was in the middle of the woods in forty degree weather wearing nothing but some ratty old jeans, a pair of well-worn sneakers, and a hoodie just a _bit_ too small across the shoulders that he'd gotten as a kid as a consolation prize at a comic book store. (The logo wasn't even there anymore.) So, wandering around a dark, scary forest where his best friend had been bitten by a werewolf six months prior without anyone to watch his back or make sure he wasn't brutally murdered? Not his best plan. Not even a good plan. It was a decidedly shitty, no-good course of action.

And yet, Stiles was still walking.

...

Scott stumbled through the underbrush after Laura, trying desperately to keep up and fight the shift as she sprinted between the trees. “Slow down!” he shouted after her, grabbing at a tree as his jeans became tangled in an outcrop of bushes. It was a kicker, really, falling behind. He might as well be human again, puffing and wheezing after her as his asthma kicked him in the stomach and snatched the air from his chest. Now he had no one and nothing to blame but himself. He tugged uselessly on the pant leg, grimacing as it tore up the seam.

His mom wasn’t going to like that.

In an instant Laura was standing before him, tugging her hair up into a ponytail and grinning comically. “You know,” she began amusedly, “it’s not much of a Full Moon run if you can’t keep up.”

“I know. I’m trying. Just – I keep tripping over stuff.”

“Then look where you’re going,” the woman teased. She draped her ponytail over her neck, grinned, and placed her hands on her hips. “You can’t keep up if you’re walking into every bush or tree in your immediate vicinity.”

Scott laughed at this, pulling the last of his pants out of the clutches of the bush. “You sound like Stiles.”

Laura rolled her eyes and turned sharply on her heel. “Thanks,” she sapped dryly. “Now keep up this time, would you? We can’t keep stopping like this. There are people in the woods today.”

“People?” the boy asked, confused. “What? Like campers?”

“How am I supposed to know? I just hear footsteps. You’ve probably heard them, too.”

“How many of them?”

Laura paused, glancing back at the boy with a soft expression. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

“I…” Scott began, but cut off at his Alpha’s look. At her quiet insistence he shut his eyes, breathing carefully in through his nose before focussing on the sounds of the preserve. For a long moment all he could hear was the hooting of an owl somewhere in the distance, and then the shifting of some small animal as it burrowed into its den. But as he sent his hearing further out, he managed to catch the movements of feet. The crunch of leaves; the snap of branches; the squeak of rubber and slide of leather.

The clinking of metal.

Trappers? Hunting was illegal on the preserve.

But there was more. More footsteps. More people. Some campers, going by the crackle of fire and the giggles and a gasp of, “ _Crap, we’re out of marshmallows_.”

Someone on their own was making their way through one of the smaller trails, near the first group Scott heard. They weren’t saying anything, so the teen figured they were just on a walk. “Seven,” he found himself muttering. “There are seven people in the woods today.”

“Very good, Scott,” the woman congratulated. “Now, think you can keep up this time?”

The boy’s eyes slid open at the prompting, and he smiled up at her. “Yeah. I think I...” The teen cut off, frowning.

“Is something…” Training off as well, Laura turned in the direction of the trappers, grimacing.

Scott made a face. “You heard it too?”

“The Leszy is busy tonight,” she muttered.

…

Two tall men picked their way steadily through the forest as the gently falling rain dripped from trees onto the ground.

One of them laughed. It was a quiet, cautious sound. “See? I told you. Bad night for hunting.”

“Not a bad night at all,” another man announced, stepping out from the trees with a crossbow slung over his shoulder. “The rain will hinder their sense of smell.”

“Chris,” one of the others hissed, loping over to whisper in the approaching man's ear. “There are signs of footprints heading west. Human. No shoes.”

The man, Chris, surveyed the area as the other too looked to him eagerly. “How many?”

“Two,” the second man informed him quickly. “Should we pursue?”

All of them went silent for a long moment as a howl pierced through the night, and the first two, younger, men looked to the newcomer for instruction.

The leader made a noise. “Yes,” he mumbled, eyes scanning the treeline for movement. “But we move slow. There's another full moon tomorrow; we can be cautious.”

“You heard him, Bob,” the taller one giggled, slapping a hand on the other man's shoulder as he approached. “Be quiet.”

The taller man, apparently Bob, muttered, “That's not my name. Stop calling me that.”

“You can call me Rainbow if you like.”

“I'm not calling you Rainbow.”

“Let's get going,” Chris interrupted, stepping between the two squabbling men to step into the clearing, eyes on the trees ahead. “Dinner's getting cold.”

…

“Oh Jesus _Christ_ ,” Stiles snapped, looking around with exasperation. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” All the trees, bushes, and branches were the same no matter where he looked. The same plants. Same splinter of moonlight filtering through the trees. In _every direction_. Ducking down, the boy undid his shoes.

“Oh, I wouldn't leave the Labyrinth right now if I were you,” the Leszy called, swinging his leg lazily back and forth. “It's not safe.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Stiles snapped bitterly, shoving his feet into each opposite shoe. He turned toward the creature, intending to give it a piece of his mind about putting him in a labyrinth _again_ , and came face to face with a _crossbow_. “ _Oh my God_ ,” he gasped, stumbling back with his mouth agape. The labyrinth was gone; dissipated into the background. He didn’t think it would work that quickly. There were hands on his arms in an instant, wrestling them behind his back. He didn't fight it, too busy staring at the _loaded weapon_ pointed at his _face_.

“What are you?” the man holding the crossbow demanded.

Stiles noted that his hand was alarmingly steady. “Okay, whoa, hold up. What are you doing?”

“Says the guy who just teleported,” one of the men at his elbows drawled.

“I didn’t-” Stiles began.

“Vampire?” one of them suggested. “God?”

“He doesn’t look like a God,” one of them pointed out. “Too scrawny.”

Stiles fixed him with a look. “Thanks. No, really; thanks for that.”

“Could be a spirit,” the leader suggested, “though he’s a bit too solid to be a ghost.”

“What the fuck-” There was a wrenching sensation in his stomach, and before Stiles knew what was going on the men were gone and the trees were indistinguishable from one another again. He was back inside the labyrinth.

“I told you it wasn’t safe,” the Leszy gloated. He’d come down from his branch and had instead chosen to lounge against the base of a tree. The creature observed its nails critically. It glanced over as Stiles stepped toward it, looking slightly regretful.

The boy winced as a particularly sharp rock dug into his foot. He glanced down, surprised to find them bare in the light of the moon.

“Sorry about that,” the Leszy muttered honestly. “It was you or your shoes.”

Stiles stared down at his feet, regretting not for the first time that night that he hadn’t bothered with socks. “No, no, I – thanks. Thank you.”

“You are very welcome. Any target of the hunters is a friend of mine.”

The boy’s eyebrows drew together, and he shifted until he could look at the Leszy straight on. “Why don’t you just trap them? The hunters? You can even take away their shoes, right? Like you did mine? Then they wouldn’t be able to escape.”

“Ah, yes, but then more hunters would come,” the Leszy pointed out. “Like werewolves, hunters always work in packs. Were I to trap one of them, others would follow. And while I could simply trap them one after the other for all eternity, I must remain in my labyrinth with anyone I keep there. They would eventually find me, and they would be armed, dangerous, and very angry. It is in my best interest to remain anonymous. Now, if that is all you would like to ask me, I suggest you go on your way. Head that way,” the Leszy advised, waving an arm off to Stiles’ right. “I’ll let you out of the Labyrinth when you’re almost to your Jeep.”

Stiles frowned. “Why are you helping me?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Okay…” The boy glanced from between the Leszy and the direction he had pointed. “Hey, do you have a name?”

The inquiry seemed to take the creature off guard, and it looked at the teen for a long, tense moment before answering. “I had a friend, a long time ago. She called me Miłogost.”

“Mee-wah-gaw-st,” Stiles sounded out. “Nice to meet you, then, Miłogost.”

“And you are?”

“Stiles,” he cockily announced. “Stiles Stilinski.”

A flicker of recognition passed through the Leszy’s eyes, but it was quickly hidden by an amused expression. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Stilinski.”

…

Staring down at the spot where the boy had disappeared, Chris' eyebrows furrowed, mouth drawn in a thin line, as the men scrambled around him.

“Space manipulation,” Rainbow noted. “Are we dealing with Kelpies? He looked human.”

“More likely to be a vampire,” Bob drawled. “It's been a while since we fought a corpse. Think I should get some practice on the ax? Decapitation is a chore when you’re rusty.”

Chris stared down at the spot where the boy had disappeared, eyes fixing curiously on the shoes still in place. “Let’s go.”

Bob made a distressed noise. “But what about the kid?”

“He’s not the priority right now,” the man insisted. “Right now we have two werewolves wandering a forest within the town limits on a full moon. _They_ are our priority.”

The other men glanced from one another, then back at Chris.

“So are we going after them?” Rainbow asked, curious. “Or are we waiting them out?”

…

Scott didn’t think he’d ever felt as free as he did right then. There was a pulsing in his chest that had nothing to do with his heartbeat or his lungs, and a lightness in his body that had he initially thought was from the full moon. It might have been the air. Laura running by his side. The light that seemed so much brighter.

Scott could feel himself changing.

Everything was bright.

Everything was so easy to see and avoid.

Everything was easy.

And then everything hurt.

There was a sound, and it pierced the night air like a thousand needles. Scott fell to his knees, clutching his head as the world fell away. Laura was there, shaking him, and then she wasn’t. His arm burned. His ears screamed. And just when the sound finally, finally stopped, there were hands tugging at his elbows and a bag was shoved over his head.

And the world went away.

…

It was dark.

Quiet.

Hard to breathe.

Breathe.

_Breathe._

_He had to breathe_.

As Scott came to he instinctively thrashed against the darkness. There was something over his head; something the scratched his eyelids and invaded his mouth. A blindfold. A gag. A sack. He couldn’t tell if it was just the first two or all three, but if after a few seconds it became water and then he was sinking, sinking, sinking deeper and deeper until his chest was a compressed mess of nerves dying for air.

His legs shot out, struggling for purchase, and there were people talking. People screaming.

“ _What the hell is going on?_ ” someone shouted. A man.

“ _I don’t know_ ,” another man screamed back. “ _He looks like he’s freaking out_.”

“ _I think he’s having a panic attack_.” This voice was slightly familiar, and Scott recalled the man who had approached him through the shining light of the glowing stakes, shoving a bag over his head and knocking him out cold.

There was another familiar hum, but before the boy could place it the person spoke and solved the mystery for him. “ _Remove the sack_ ,” they said. “ _It might calm him down_.”

The fabric was ripped away, but Scott was already calm. He kept his eyes closed against the onslaught of light lightly scenting the air the way Laura told him to every morning. Concrete. Damp walls. Foundation.

He was in a basement.

His heart was going like a jackhammer; a reminder of the panic that had gripped him only seconds before. Breathing was still difficult. Barely manageable. But with every breath came a whiff of the sweet, delicate perfume of the girl across the room. Slowly, Scott opened his eyes to pin his glowing gaze on the figure in the corner. “Hi, Allison,” he greeted shyly.

Everyone stiffened.

“How do you-”

“We go to school together,” the girl interjected, stepping out of the shadows and into the room. Her long hair had been pulled into a severe ponytail, and her clothes were simpler than he was used to; jeans and a tee-shirt.

Scott figured it wouldn’t be a good time to tell her he thought she looked beautiful.

“So, Scott,” one of the men began sharply, circling around his chair. “Where’s your Alpha?”

He shrugged. This was made slightly difficult by the ropes digging into his wrists, but he managed. “Home, probably.”

“Don’t play coy!” one of the men snapped.

“Easy, Bob,” the other one sighed.

“That’s not my name, goddammit!”

Scott blinked. “I’m not lying,” he insisted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was eating takeout over her keyboard right now. She’s kind of a hermit.”

“An Alpha wouldn’t leave their Beta when they’ve been attacked by hunters,” Bob snapped.

“Calm down,” the one who seemed to be the leader insisted.

The boy glanced between the two, grinning weakly. “You guys have a code, right? You hunt those who hunt you?”

Nodding solemnly, the leader looked him dead in the eye and said, “Yes.”

“We don’t hunt.”

“Well, then, if you don’t hunt then mind telling us how you got bit?” Bob drawled.

Scott laughed. “Funny story, actually. See, my friend Stiles and I got this idea before school rolled around that we wanted to get high.”

…

“I think he’s telling the truth,” Allison announced boldly, hands on her hips. “Everything matches up, even the Hale’s numbers. The Hale Alpha hasn’t recruited in years. Why start now if not out of obligation to her territory?”

“If there was a rogue Beta or Omega out there we would have found it by now,” Chris insisted.

“Would we have?”

“Yes.”

She rolled her eyes, collapsing against the side of the hallway and sliding down to sit on the floor with a wince and a relieved groan. “We’ve only been here, what, a month? Seriously Dad. We aren’t some perfect, infallible hunter family. We never were, and we never will be.”

“I know, honey. It’s just that we would have found tracks, or some other kind of proof.”

“Whoever this Beta or Omega is, they might be working with whoever took Peter,” she pointed out. “And if they’re somehow connected that means the forest isn’t a viable option for collecting evidence. We have to branch out. Peter’s scent was last found in downtown; the rogue wolf might be there, too. Just because we haven’t found him doesn’t mean we have to brush off Scott’s claim entirely.”

Christ looked at her for a long moment before muttering, “You like him.”

“What? _No_ , I just-”

“Don’t ‘no’ me. I’m your father. I can tell whether my daughter’s sweet on someone or not. I’m not an idiot.”

“He’s a _werewolf_ , Dad,” she snapped. “It’s never going to happen.”

They were quiet for a long time before the man nodded solemnly. “Good. Just checking.”

“Yeah, well, next time you think I like someone and feel like commenting, do you think you could you do me a favor?” she asked, rising to her feet and dusting off her butt. She looked the man dead in the eye and snapped, “Don’t.”


	8. Lady Midday

Sprinting from between the last of the trees at the edge of the preserve, Laura kept her eyes set dead on the ground in front of her. Her legs nearly gave as her feet caught on branches and rocks; her arms flailed in an attempt to keep her balance as she stumbled over and over again. Until,after a few too many backward glances to be safe, down she went in a barefoot mess of limbs and denim. But instead of falling to her hands she twisted as she went, landing on her side and rolling so she could face the trees behind her, claws bared and eyes burning Alpha red in preparation for anything that might have followed.

The only sound to be heard was the rushed, desperate heaving of her own breathing and the steady _drip, drip, drip_ of the steadily falling rain.

Burying her face in her hands, the woman forced out a long, shaky breath. Slowly, agonizingly, it slowed to something manageable. Letting her head fall against the ground, hair splaying out in the mud. The tie keeping it up had long-since been lost, and her jacket was soaked with mud.

With a soft grimace, Laura dragged herself off the ground. Her clothes squelched and protested to the movement. Mud dripped from her hair and her skin, helped in no part by the gently falling rain.

And then she started running.

At a steady jog, she made her way away from the preserve. She passed houses, convenience stores, and apartment complexes, padding barefoot through town at the side of the road. Only when the tip of a familiar firetruck red chimney peeked out from between the trees did she slow. Digging into her pocket, the woman retrieved her phone and unlocked it, calling up speed-dial two with a sober expression. She pressed the phone to her cheek, biting her lip in apprehension as it dialed.

It rung once.

“ _Hey, you’re okay!_ ” Scott enthused from the other end of the line.

“So are you,” she noted, relieved. “I thought for sure they caught you.”

“ _Well, they technically did_ ,” he mumbled.

Her eyes widened and she slowed to a stop in the middle of the street. “What? Did they do anything? Scott, please tell me they didn’t do anything to you.”

“ _I’m fine!_ ” the Beta ensured her. “ _Nothing to worry about. They were mostly just curious about why you were expanding your pack. Apparently you guys are famous for, well, **not**._ ”

“And then they just… let you go?” Laura began pace toward her house, checking back and forth in the road for any oncoming cars, not that she had seen anyone since the guy running the convenience store she passed turned the lights off. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would they just let you go? You’re a liability.”

“ _I… kind of knew one of them. A girl in my class. Allison Argent._ ”

“Argent?” she muttered. “Jesus _Christ_.”

“ _You know them?_ ”

“Sort of,” she evaded, stepping into her driveway. The woman paused as her eyes landed on the house, where a figure was standing stationary beside the front door, staring out at her. “Look, I have to go.”

“ _What? Why?_ ”

“Talk to you later, bye.” Ending the call, Laura drew to a stop to shove her phone in her pocket and stare at the figure from a distance. “What are you doing here?” she whispered dryly.

Nearly fifty feet away, the person snarled. “ _You’re one to talk._ ”

Heaving a groan, the woman stepped around the Camaro in the driveway and hopped onto the porch, wiping her feet on the doormat and refusing to meet her guest’s eyes as she unlocked the front door. “What do you want, Derek?”

“It’s been six months,” he pointed out. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t coming home?”

She glanced over and laughed. Reaching forward, the woman dragged a hand along the taller man’s jaw and made a face. “Did you grow an ‘I miss Laura’ beard? That’s so sweet. You look like a hipster.”

Derek bristled at this, taking a step out of her reach before following her off the porch and into the foyer. Politely removing his leather jacket, he placed it on the coat hook by the door and removed his shoes, neatly placing them beneath it. “What have you been doing? And who did you bite?”

“I’m not sure I should tell you,” the woman admitted, practically ripping off her shirt and wadding it up, revealing a faded undershirt. “I’m going to take a bath.”

“Did your full moon run not end well?” he asked quickly, stalling his sister as she began to make her way up the stairs. “I had expected to wait all night. You’re home early.”

Glancing back at her brother, the woman settled a hand against the stair rail and tried not to look too crestfallen as she told him, “You should go back to New York.”

“Not without you,” he grumbled back.

Laura sighed, then turned and made her way up the stairs. “Codependent prick,” she spat under her breath.

“Selfish bitch,” he muttered back.

They both smiled weakly.

Laura continued up the stairs, dead set on taking a bath.

Derek settled on the couch, dragging off his messenger bag and retrieving a book.

Six months and nothing had changed.

…

When Scott burst into Stiles’ room the morning after their solo adventures in the woods, all his words came out in a rush.

“Okay, slow down, dude,” the younger boy advised, throwing his legs over the side of his bed and settling his laptop into a firmer position in his lap. “Repeat all of that, but human speed.”

“So you know that girl I told you about? Allison?”

“I remember a name, yes, and hour long descriptions of glorious flowing brown hair if that’s what you mean.”

Scott gave him a look that essentially read, “Have you heard the name Lydia Martin? For she has perfect strawberry blonde tresses – they aren’t red, mind you – and she is the smartest woman on the planet.” Though it was probably closer to, “You’re a dirty hypocrite.”

“Well?” Stiles demanded, missing the deeper meaning in his friend’s expression entirely.

“Okay, so last night I was kidnapped by a group of hunters-”

“What?!”

“-and-”

“No, seriously, what?” Stiles nearly screamed, voice squeaking. “You’ve got to be _kidding_ me.”

“No. And she was on my side! She was totally on my side! I mean, it’s super freaky that she comes from a background of hunters, but as soon as I told them how I was turned in the first place she had them all back off!” He sighed wistfully. “She’s amazing.”

Stiles blinked up at the boy, incredulous. “That’s… That’s it. That’s what you’re getting out of this?”

Scott’s head, of all things, tilted slightly to the side as he managed a rather confused, “Uh…”

“Dude, this ‘amazing girl’ you’re so fixated with? She’s a hunter. And in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re a werewolf. You know what that means?” He paused dramatically. “It means she wants to _kill you_.” Wrists were raised. Jazz hands were activated. “To _death_. Okay? How are you not grasping the gravity of the situation?”

“But she argued for me!” he pointed out. “She made sure I was safe!”

“Yeah, ensuring that they would eventually find out where you Alpha is and… Oh God.”

“What is it _now_?”

“Scott, do you not see how this is a _huge issue_?”

“Which one?”

“They know you’re a Werewolf and will be keeping tabs on you. I spend time with you. They think _I_ am some teleporting _badass_ , which I am _not_ but _they do not know this_.”

“I don’t-”

“They’re going to _find_ me, Scott,” he simplified. “They’re going to find me and _gank_ me, okay?”

“What…” The werewolf squinted at Stiles, looking him over. From the bags under his eyes, the pale tinge to his skin, and the bandages on his feet. “Did something happen last night?”

“What part of ‘my feet are bleeding through three layers of cotton’ is so hard to comprehend, Scott?” the boy snapped, waving his hands in the general direction of his feet, then making motions like he was putting them on auction. “Behold, my glorious injuries that I obtained after having my ass saved by old man Miłogost, who was actually putting me in imminent danger by hiding the fact that he was a leszy by making them think I’m a _vampire_ or a _kelpie_ or... or a freaking _God_. Okay? Bad things happened last night. Very, very bad things.”

“How-”

“Don’t ask me how, okay? Just know it was not nearly as cool as it could have been and now I need new sneakers.”

“Wait, what happened to your sneakers?”

“Dude! Do, not, ask! Okay?”

…

“I don’t see why you don’t just get some crutches,” Scott announced, stepping out of Stiles’ Jeep’s driver’s side seat and slamming the door shut behind him. He glanced idly around the parking lot, taking in the approaching mob of students.

“Okay, yeah,” Stiles muttered, hopping out of the passenger seat and sliding carefully to the ground, tip-toeing over to the sidewalk with a grimace. He dodged around a short girl and a gangly kid he didn’t bother identifying on the way. “That should go over well. ‘Hey dad, could you take me to the hospital? Yeah, nothing’s wrong. It’s just that, you know that time I went on a walk in the middle of the night and you told me it was a bad idea?

“Well, I lost my shoes and wound up slicing open my feet, like, a dozen times and, you know, thank God it was the weekend because they’re really healed now because of the entire tube of neosporin – which I replaced – and a lot of video games. But I’d like some crutches if that’s alright with you. That way I stop bleeding through my socks and everyone will know I’m a cripple.’” Glancing over at Scott, he leveled him with a dry look and told him with more sarcastic cheerfulness than was necessary. “That should go over _splendidly_.”

The older boy frowned. “I get it. Don’t be such a dick about it.”

“I…” Making an off expression, the boy looked right at Scott and asked, “Did you just call me a dick?”

“You gave me executive decision, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then stop being a dick.”

Stiles threw his hands up, drawing to a stop right there in the middle of the sidewalk. “Okay, what did I do this time?”

The older boy hesitated before turning to look his friend in the eye, face grim. “You only needed to say maybe two words to set me straight. The part where you went on about how smart I’m _not_ was too much.”

“I…” The boy sputtered. “Dude, I’ve been making those kind of jokes for years. _Literally_. Why are you just now telling me this?”

Scott opened his mouth to reply, only to pause and blink, confused.

Stiles, about to make a joke, froze at the look on his friend’s face. “Hey, is everything okay?”

“I’m driving your Jeep to work after school, so don’t worry about me,” he announced suddenly.

“What the…” The younger boy gaped as his friend turned on his heel and sprinted toward the school’s front doors. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You’ll see,” Scott called over his shoulder, disappearing into the school.

“See what?” Stiles shouted back, hobbling toward the front doors.

“Are you okay?”

The boy nearly brained himself on his own elbow as he spun around to see who had approached him. “Danny!” he exclaimed, surprised. “It’s been a while. Sort of. I mean, we see each other every day, but the last time we talked we were…” _dancing in a gay club, during which I might have massaged your dick with my leg and had a sexual identity crisis_. “Uh… How’ve you been?” he said instead.

“Uh…” Danny took a moment to compose himself, not expecting the barrage of words. “I’ve been good, but I was going to ask what’s wrong with your legs.”

Stiles winced. “Long story, but it’s not my legs.”

The boy frowned. “Then what is it?”

“My, uh…” He trailed off, reaching up to nervously scratch the back of his head. “It’s my feet.” Over the taller boy’s shoulder he could see Jackson glaring pointedly at him. “Well, uh, I’m gonna get going. Before Jackson murders me horribly and gets it written off as self defense. Later!”

“Wait, I wanted to ask you something!”

Stiles froze, half turned toward the school. And wow, didn’t that feel awkward?

There was a long beat of silence before Danny realized the shorter boy had stopped for him. “I was wondering, if that was what you were doing, if I could join you in the library after school.”

Confused, the younger boy faced him head on and said, “I’m not going to the library after school.”

“Oh…” Danny seemed a bit taken aback at this. “But you’ve been there a lot lately.”

Stiles nodded slowly. “Yeah, I have. But I checked out all the books I needed and now I’m working through them.” The boy watched carefully as the older teen’s face seemed to fall; something he wasn’t used to seeing on the usually dimpled face. “Do you need help with math or something?”

“I…” His hands fiddled with the ends of his jacket as he paused, words dying in his throat.

 _He’s nervous_ , the younger boy realized, shocked. _He doesn’t know what to say._

“I could use some help with History?” It came out more of a question than anything, and took both the boy’s off guard.

Stiles was pretty sure Danny had an A in History. “Don’t you have Cross Country after school?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, I was thinking about skipping, what with my feet and all.”

Danny shook his head. “Coach kicked someone off the team for that last year. It’s better just to show up and sit on the bench.”

“Look-”

“I could really use the help,” the taller boy insisted before Stiles could get any further.

He didn’t know what else to say.

…

“Just drop the act, okay? We both know you don’t need any help with History.” Shooting up from where he had been sitting at the living room coffee table, Stiles hobbled over to the couch and collapsed on to it. He leaned forward, dragging the insanely large books he’d gotten from the library off the table and on to his lap, only to slide them on to the cushions beside him. “So could you just be honest with what’s going on? Because that would be great.”

Danny is quiet for a long moment before looking Stiles in the eye and announcing, “No one else at school is out.”

The younger boy blinked. “The what now?”

“No one has an issue when someone’s gay, but most of them are still… I don’t know. No one cares when you’re gay, but people still don’t want to be gay.”

And… wow. That actually made a lot of sense to Stiles.

Danny shook his head and sighed. “And I know you’re straight, but that night at the club-”

“I’m not-”

“I know you’re not gay, okay? I-”

“That’s not what I’m-”

“-just would like to spend more time-”

“Listen, I’m not-”

“-someone who’s a bit more open-”

“I’m bisexual!” Stiles shouted over the older boy, bringing the conversation to a dead stop.

Silence.

The younger boy glanced at the clock. “Okay, so my dad’s gonna be home soon. We can either wrap things up or move this up to my room.”

Danny _stared_. He almost looked like he was in shock. But after a few seconds he said that yes, he would like to take this upstairs and they gathered their things and made their way to the second floor. But as soon as they made it into the room their books fell to the floor and the was a great clatter as Danny’s hands came to bracket Stiles’ wrists to the door.

For the next few moments everything seemed to go in slow motion. Danny leaning forward, dragging his nose along Stiles’ cheek as he leaned in and pressed a steaming, heady kiss to the younger boy’s lips.

Stiles, for all his powers of bullshit and improvisation, had no idea how to respond. Between the pounding of his heart and the grip that made his hands tingle he couldn’t concentrate long enough for a thought to form. So when Danny pulled away the shorter boy put as much space between them as he could without using his hands to look the older teen in the eye. “What was that?”

Suddenly Danny didn’t look so sure of himself. Not that he really looked very confident to begin with. “You’re the one who took me to your room. What was I supposed to think?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe that _we were going to study_?” Stiles suggested, eyebrows raised pointedly at the boy pinning him to his bedroom door. He looked away, face flushing. "I mean, as far as first kisses go it was pretty great, not that I have anything to compare it with-"

"What-"

"But it's just, like, I didn't want it to just happen so randomly like that.”

For a long while neither of them said anything, breathing each other’s air and avoiding eye contact. Neither of them attempted to pull away from the contact. Then, after a few minutes of this, Danny cleared his throat. “That was your first kiss?”

“Well, yeah,” the younger boy admitted, surprised by the open shock on his assailant’s face. “People don’t really line up for…” He caught himself before he said, “a piece of the Stiles.” People didn’t seem to react to that very well. _What would Laura say?_ he wondered to himself for a moment before muttering, “People aren’t generally interested.”

“I’m interested,” Danny suddenly announced. “I’m very interested.”

“Uh…” Stiles sputtered. “Why?”

“Don’t worry about that.” The older boy pulled away, then grinned. “Just think about it, okay?” Snatching his books from the floor, he grinned at the smaller teen and told him, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

As confused as Stiles was, he managed to wave him off and see him to the door before he collapsed on the couch and stared at the blank TV for two hours.

That was when his father arrive, two hours late and looking far more haggard than he should have.

Stiles didn’t make a note because he didn’t trust his voice not to squeak.

…

“I’m telling you, something’s up,” Stiles advocated as he and Scott stepped out of the Jeep the following Friday. “Laura never invites us over. Usually we just show up and drop news on her, or you need Alpha time. The pizza she offered has got to be poisoned or something.”

“She wouldn’t poison her pack,” Scott pointed out. “Besides, how would she poison pizza?”

“She’d find a way. I wouldn’t put her above dusting powdered ghost peppers on our plates.”

“Ghost peppers are poisonous?”

“No, but they sure as hell hurt in the long run. Death by dehydration. It’s a thing.”

Scott drew to a stop, confused. “How would-”

“Diarrhea.”

The older boy stared, wide-eyed, as his friend made his way up to Laura’s front door and knocked. “You’re kidding, right?”

Stiles threw the front door open and shouted, “There, I knocked. I was polite and shit. Where’s the pizza? I was promised… pizza.” The boy trailed off at the sight before him , which was definitely not what he had expected.

Shirtless dude.

Shirtless, dripping wet dude.

Built like a barn, shirtless, dripping wet confirmation of Stiles’ newly discovered sexuality.

There was a stranger in Laura’s living room. A towel was wrapped around his shoulders; a halfhearted frame to the muscled, glistening back that was on full display for Stiles’ perusal. Immediately his thoughts strayed to anatomy class, because wow, this guy had some serious deltoids and ridiculous external abdominal obliques. He just wanted to touch them. Suddenly Stiles was struck with the question of why it took him so long to figure out he was bisexual. He hadn’t even seen this guy’s face and he wanted to climb him like a tree.

Laura looked up from her computer, expression flat as she leaned around the wall of muscle and shining flesh beside her. “Pizza’s in the kitchen. Set the table, would you?”

Stiles jumped to do as he was told, surprising even himself in his eagerness to help. But really, he just needed some space. There was a hot shirtless guy in the living room in nothing but a pair of jeans that looked at is they had been surgically modified to replace his skin, and Stiles wasn’t ready for this. In Jungle he’d been happy in his denial and hadn’t thought much on the sea of hot, single, grinding men at his fingertips. But now?

Now a very possibly straight man was in the living room and Stiles didn’t want to make a scene. So as soon as the man went upstairs, what else could he do but slap the plates down and book it towards a very thrown-for-a-loop Laura?

“Who was that?”

Or maybe two loops. “Derek.”

“ _That_ was _Derek_? Your younger brother, Derek?” he gaped, eyes shooting to the stairs, where the man had no doubt disappeared to while Stiles hadn’t been looking. “I’m sorry, but I think your brother was abducted and replaced by a changeling because that is not Derek Hale.”

“Really?” the woman deadpanned as she found humor in the situation, lips quirking up into a half-grin, half-satisfied smirk that irked the boy.

“Yes, really. You want to know how I know? Because Derek Hale has really bad acne,” he announced confidently. “Derek Hale is wiry, thin, definitely _not_ six feet tall, has an umbilical cord attached to his windbreaker, and a basketball super-glued to his _face_. Whatever that thing is, I’m am very sure it’s not your brother.”

“Are you trying to tell me you spent the majority of your middle school career staring at him?”

Whatever response Stiles might have had was cut short by the return of Derek, now properly clothed in a thin tee-shirt and a leather jacket. Honestly, who wore leather jackets indoors?

And then Stiles’ eyes flicked up to meet Derek’s and…

Lightning.

Every inch of Stiles’ body was suddenly tingling; buzzing with some unknown, nervous energy. There was a churning in his stomach he didn’t dare call nausea and a pounding in his ears that couldn’t be healthy. It was almost exactly how he’d felt when he had first laid eyes on Lydia Martin so many years ago; all Strawberry Blonde hair and overactive IQ. Whatever it was taking root in his chest wasn’t any bigger than it had been that day in third grade, when the girl of his dreams waltzed into class and completely destroyed life as he knew it. It wasn’t any smaller, either. It was just the same. Except it was different. And it was all because he’d stared into an expanse of green that couldn’t be real. Couldn’t be an _actual_ eye color. That was just ridiculous. The guy was perfect.

And then he scowled.

 _Okay, not perfect_ , Stiles amended. _Almost perfect. Nearly perfect. Semi-phenomenal, nearly cosmic perfect._

“-this is Scott. Scott, Derek.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Stiles nearly physically shook himself out of his stupor just in time to catch his best friend in the entire world get turned down for a handshake.

 _Yup_ , he thought to himself. _This guy’s a douche_.

Scott stepped to the side, moving around the man and taking a seat at the kitchen table without so much as batting a lash. Stiles had always admired that about the older boy; his inability to let anyone get him down. Deciding this was the best course of action, the human decided to follow his example and take a seat himself.

“Stiles,” Laura began, grabbing him by his shoulders and turning him to face the brick of a man at the base of the stairs. “Meet Derek.”

The boy stared wide-eyed up at the man who… wait… Derek was only one inch taller than him. He’d seemed so much… bigger.

The man was just as unenthusiastic about this introduction as he had been for Scott’s, and deemed it appropriate to address Laura instead. “You’re just going to stay here? With the house and your shiny new desk job and your…” he waved a hand in the general direction Stiles, “jailbait minions?”

“We’re not talking about this right now,” Laura announced, steering the teen toward the table before taking a seat herself. “Before anything else, we are going to sit down and have an honest to goodness pack dinner.”

Scott leaned over to whisper in Stiles’ ear after he took a seat. “Are we jailbait?”

“Technically speaking, yes. Although I doubt we’re attractive enough to qualify,” Stiles observed under his breath. This earned him a dirty look from Derek. He was suddenly struck by the desire to see more dirty looks on that face. _Nope_ , the the younger boy thought to himself. _Not going there._

“So, Scott, how’s school?”

He nodded eagerly. “Good. Great, actually. Lacrosse tryouts are coming up-”

“In March,” Stiles pointed out under his breath.

“-and since I don’t have asthma any more I might be able to make it to first line this year. It’ll be nice not to warm the bench the entire time.”

Glancing over at Derek out of the corner of his eye, Stiles was surprised to see the man throwing a worried look in Laura’s direction. The boy could almost hear his thought process.

 _He’s going to expose us_ , he was no doubt thinking. _He’s going to turn on the field and slaughter everyone within reach. Then hunters will come for us_.

“Oh, come on,” Stiles drawled. “Give Scott a bit more credit. He’s not going to kill everyone.”

All eyes turned to him.

The boy motioned towards Derek, lips drawn into a disappointed grimace. “Don't look at me like that. He was totally thinking it!”

“How are things with Danny?” Laura asked suddenly.

The boy froze.

“Yeah, how are things with Danny?” Scott requested smugly.

“Traitor,” Stiles muttered under his breath. “When did you tell her?”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh my God,” the younger boy muttered. He buried his face in his hands and settled his elbows on the table. “Can we stop talking and just eat Pizza now? I was promised pizza. I expect pizza.” He kind of wanted to curl up in a ball and pretend none of it had happened.

…

After dinner, Stiles and Laura volunteered to do the dishes while Scott and Derek were forced to be napkin cleanup. (There had been a fight of sort. Words may or may not have been said or grunted. Laura may or may not be attempted to force them to get along. Without debate, that was not working.)

The boy handed Laura a dish, looked up at her beneath short eyelashes, and mumbled, “I found a spell in one of the books I've been reading. It might help us find…” He trailed off as the woman placed a finger against his lips.

Her hand pulled away and she jerked a thumb in the direction of the living room and made a face.

Derek can't overhear? he thought to himself. Why?

Taking the cue, he didn't question it aloud and instead finished up the dishes.

…

"I'm home!" Stiles called the moment he got in, toeing off his shoes in the entryway and stepping into the living room. It was strange; the room was quiet. His father should have been home.

His father should have been home for hours.

“Dad?” he shouted, stepping further into the house. He wasn't in the living room or the kitchen, and the bathroom was empty, too. Racing up the stairs, he knocked on his father's door. “Dad?” When there was no reply he shouted, “I'm coming in.”

But there was no one in the room.

No one in the house but him.

Practically yanking his cell out of his pocket, Stiles speed-dialed the station with apprehension settling firmly in his gut.

" _Beacon Hills Sheriff Department. Please state your emergency_."

"Hey Rhonda," the boy greeted weakly. "Is the Sheriff working late?"

" _Let me check_ ," she told him firmly. In the background noise of the station he could hear the shifting of a ceramic coffee mug and the click of nails against keys. " _He is; last minute case. He should be home soon, though_."

“Soon? How soon?”

“ _About an hour. Janette’s telling me he didn't get lunch_.”

“I'll make sure to have something ready for him, then,” Stiles told her. “Can you tell me anything about the case he's on?”

“ _You know I can't,_ ” she snapped in good humor. “ _Now go make him a burger or something._ ”

“Will do.” Pulling his phone away, the boy ended the call with a sigh and a relieved grin. He'd been called a narc in middle school because his dad was the Sheriff, but most people just didn't understand what it meant to have an officer for a family member. Long nights, nightmares, injuries, paranoia about late-night phone calls...

Coming home to an empty house.

The list went on.

Shoving his phone back in his pocket, Stiles hopped down the stairs and stepped into the kitchen.

…

“Okay, so you got the hair, then?” Stiles said into the general direction of his phone the following Thursday.

“ _They hadn't completely decontaminated his clothes, so we have three strands_ ,” Laura informed him from the other end of the line. “ _We've got maybe half a shot at this_.”

“Keep looking, okay? I'm going to get the wheat. I'm about half a mile from the farm.”

“ _That spell is oddly specific_ ,” the woman noted quietly, her voice nearly too small for Stiles to hear.

“Yeah, well, probably for a reason. It wants wheat harvested at noon? I give it wheat harvested at noon.”

“ _Do you even know what wheat looks like at this time of year?_ ” the Alpha asked. “ _It's winter. Do people even plant wheat in winter?_ ”

“Just trust me, okay? It's not going to be super-tall, but it'll be noon-harvested wheat. I synced my phone to satellites twice this morning and googled the shit out of wheat harvest times. Don't get me wrong; this isn't how I expected to be spending my winter break, but if this is how I'm going to spend it I'm not going to mess it up.”

“ _If you're sure,_ ” she drawled.

“Yes, I'm sure,” Stiles snapped back, glancing at the phone for an instant before turning back to the road where a girl was just _standing there_. “Holy shit!” He jerked the wheel to the side, slamming on the brakes and swerving around the figure, nearly careening into a long fence as he did so. As the car dragged to an eventual halt, he turned around in his seat to check behind him. The girl was still there.

Thank God.

“ _Stiles?_ ” Laura shouted. “ _Stiles, answer me. Are you alright?_ ”

He groaned. “Yeah, I'm fine. I'll call you back, okay?”

“ _Sure. See you in an hour._ ”

The boy popped his car into neutral before pulling the break. As he jumped out of his car, phone in hand, a lot of things popped in to his head as to what he could should at the girl.

_Get out of the road._

_What the hell do you think you're doing?_

_What the ever living fuck?_

_I almost hit you, stupid!_

But as he approached her, he felt as if his legs had been dragged through gelatin and left to harden. His entire body felt heavy. His feet were like bricks. And then... he was stuck.

“I have questions for you,” the girl said evenly as Stiles dragged to a halt. “Answer them and I'll let you live.”

Okay, yeah, that couldn't be good.

“Who discovered America?”

Stiles stared at her for a long while before muttering, “Do you want a textbook answer or the real answer?”

The girl stared at him for a moment before answering. “Real.”

He cleared his throat as it started to close, then swallowed heavily. “Probably Vikings, though my money's on the people who were already here.”

She hummed. “Name three countries that begin with the letter A.”

“Argentina, Afghanistan, and... uh... Australia.”

“Finish the analogy. Bookstore, novels. Bakery-”

“Bread. What are you, six?”

“Eleven,” she answered dryly.

He laughed, but the expression soon fell. “That's it, isn't it? That's how it works? Three questions and I get set free?” he whined, mouth falling open and desperately attempting to get his legs to move.

“I keep you here until I'm satisfied,” the girl stated in reply.

The boy's mouth snapped shut before he spat, “You've got to be kidding.”

“What's a knuckleball?”

“It... A baseball that doesn't rotate in flight.”

“Why do leaves change colors in the fall?”

“The colors were always there. The Chlorophyll is what makes them green in the first place, and when it starts getting cold they begin to die off.”

“What am I?”

“You're...” Stiles had been about to say 'a crossroads demon,' but something made him pause. The set of the girl's face, maybe, or the road itself. The long, unending stretch of pavement, the field of wheat, the sun burning overhead as the noon sun approached... Noon. It was noon. “You're the Lady Midday.”

A beat of silence passed before she smiled and announced, “Very good. You’re the first person to get that.”

He collapsed to the ground, no longer held in the thrall of her presence, and by the time he looked up she was gone.

Slapping his hands over his face, Stiles rolled over on to his back and groaned. “Oh, thank God, she didn't decapitate me.” He laid there for a good five minutes before his phone alarm sounded. “And it's noon,” he muttered to himself, rising to his feet. Yeah – collecting some wheat wasn't supposed to be that hard.

_Stupid Beacon Hills._

Running over to the field of two-inch-tall hay at the side of the road, Stiles pulled out a set of nail clippers and took a small circle, hoping no one would notice. He held the stalks up to the sun, grinning. “Noon harvested wheat; check.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapters hails the completion of the first third of the story.


	9. Wheat and Candle Wax

When Scott first arrived at the Argent’s house, it was early morning.

When he finally rang their doorbell, it was nearly three in the afternoon, and within seconds the door was open and he had a pair of very fatherly eyes glaring down at him.

“Can I help you?” Chris Argent drawled slowly, saying it more with his teeth than anything else.

Scott stared up at him, more than a little intimidated. “I, uh…” He cleared his throat. “Can…” He swallowed heavily. “Is Allison home?” the boy squeaked at last, floundering for words even after he’d said them, wondering just how he would convince the man to let him see his daughter.

“How do you know where we live?” the man snapped.

Scott bit his lip before answering, “I followed the scent, sir.”

Chris scoffed, jaw working as he rolled his eyes over Scott’s form, no doubt attempting to measure the threat he presented. “Scent, huh?” he drawled darkly, stepping away from the door. “Allison,” he shouted. “There’s someone for you at the door.”

The boy listened, amused, as he heard a light scramble upstairs, followed by a slew of footsteps and then… Allison. He watched as she casually strode down the stairs with all the confidence of a queen, looking from her father, then towards him at the door… then back to her father.

“You can go,” she told him confidently, gaze even as her father glanced between her and the door before retreating into the next room. She approached Scott with a small smile, though that was quickly repressed. “To what do I owe the visit?”

Taking a deep breath, Scott fought against the sudden panic that gripped him. What had he planned to say? Had he planned to say anything? What was he even doing there? What-

“Are you okay?”

The boy jerked back to reality, realizing suddenly that his claws had popped out and he’d been tapping them against his leg. He hid his hands behind his back, blushing a bright red and turning his face away from the girl’s searching gaze. “Sorry. I’m just… I’m nervous.”

Smiling sweetly, Allison leaned against the door and teased, “Why are you nervous?”

“Because you make me nervous.”

“Good nervous or bad nervous?”

“Good nervous,” he replied without a single beat of hesitation. “Very, very good nervous.”

She grinned.

He laughed.

“So what did you want to ask?” Allison twirled a lock of perfectly curled hair carefully around her finger as she said this, feet falling naturally as she adjusted against the door to point towards Scott. “I’m assuming you came here to ask me something.”

Now or never, he thought to himself. “I was wondering if you’d like to hang out some time.”

“Like a date?” the girl asked, biting her lip. Her eyes flickered from Scott to the floor as she answered. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“It doesn’t have to be a date!” Scott insisted quickly, eyes going wide and hands falling back to his sides to nervously clench and unclench. “It could be… Something else. Just hanging out – me and you. Somewhere cool, after the holidays. Not a date.”

“Not a date, then,” she repeated, gaze rising back up from the ground as her face flushed with color and a smile threatened to consume her cheeks. Her dimples almost seemed to wink from the action. “So should I get your number, so I can contact you about this ‘not a date?’”

“What?” he sputtered. When her words finally sunk in, his mouth split in a wide, tooth-baring grin and suddenly he had so much energy he didn’t know what to do with it. Without realizing it, his feet had begun to move without his notice, propelling him minutely up and down. “Yes! Yes, totally! That would be… uh…” He paused, growing still. For the following few seconds he made a point to keep his feet firmly on the ground as embarrassment flooded him. “I mean, yeah. Sure.” Digging his phone out of his pocket, he navigated to the contact menu and opened up a new form before handing it to Allison.

“Thanks,” she said, handing her own over with a giggle. “Do I have to do anything special?” she asked, looking over his (admittedly antique) flip phone with a slightly confused look. “Like – it’s the clear button actually the confirm button?”

“Just use the arrows to navigate and I’ll save it and stuff,” Scott replied, looking over her phone with a wave of jealousy. It was an iPhone – the kind he’d seen on television. Everyone had been talking about them, and with 2011 just around the corner it was only a matter of time before everyone showed up at school with a shiny new phone as their birthday present. And Scott had _no idea_ how to work it. “Uh-”

“Done,” Allison announced, handing him back his phone with her contact information saved at everything. She had apparently figured out the controls on his phone, and quickly managed to type her information in without a keyboard and hand it back to him. Her name even had proper capitalization.

Taking the phone back with a shy grin, Scott shoved it in his pocket and held out her phone with an embarrassed, “I can’t figure this out.” He’d stared at the screen the whole time, but couldn’t figure out what to do with no buttons. Seriously, what did he-

She tapped the first box for name, and up popped a keyboard.

“It’s a _touch screen_?” Scott gaped, shocked.

“One ‘T’ or two?”

…

Getting Derek out of the house the “day of” was the hardest thing Laura had ever done.

“Why don’t you go on a walk? You look like you need it,” she suggested, taking a sharp turn on Mario Kart to take first forcefully from Stiles. She glanced possessively over to his bag, in which were the wheat, salt, and mountain ash they would need.

“It’s thirty-five degrees out. I’m good,” the man replied, then stepped into the kitchen to fry up some eggs.

Half an hour later she tried again. “If I order a pizza will you drive over and get it?”

“They do deliver you know.”

And again, an hour later, “We’re almost out of butter. Think you could get some?”

“I got some this morning while you were asleep.”

_We have to get him out_ , Stiles typed out on his phone, flashing the screen at her behind the barrier of the couch.

_You think I don’t know that?_ she replied, flashing her own phone at him. _Can’t you contribute?_

_I’m only good at repelling people._

That’s when it occurred to her. “Stiles, why didn’t you say anything sooner?” she asked before jumping to her feet, earning a confused look. Stepping out of the living room and into the kitchen, she settled a hand on her brother’s shoulder and quietly began, “Derek, Stiles and I need to talk about something in his life. Mind stepping-”

And then Derek was gone.

Outside there was the revving of an engine and the squeal of tires as the man pulled violently out of the driveway.

Laura grinned. “Well, that was easy enough.”

“What did you _say_?” Stiles gasped. He stepped into the kitchen, a look of awe across his face.

“I implied that you wanted to talk about emotions,” she drawled amusedly. “He’s never been very good with things like that.”

“I can tell,” he muttered quietly as he glanced between Laura and the door. He slapped his hands together and grinned. “So, should we get this party started?”

The woman rolled her eyes, but nodded anyway. As Stiles shot off to collect his backpack, she set about clearing the table.

When the candles were all set, and three bowls were placed in the center of the table, Stiles pulled out a chair and asked, “So, wax or fire first?”

“Wax,” the woman replied. “Fire second.”

Settling into the chair, Stiles pulled one of the candles closer before grabbing one of the bowls. “Take a seat, I guess,” he told her. “This might take a while.”

“I know,” she replied quietly, taking a seat herself before staring intently at the candle. “So how is this wax divination thing supposed to work?”

Stiles shrugged. “Well, mostly I just sit in front of the candle thinking about who I’m looking for… which would probably be more accurity if you did it-”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Yeah, okay, fine. We’ve established this. Now, anyway, I just look into the flame and think about Peter. Which, thanks, by the way, on giving me a lowdown of his most not-glorious moments. Although I could have done without the pooping-while-sleepwalking story.”

“Happy to help.”

“So when the candle burns out I look at the puddle of wax at the bottom of the bowl and we go from there.”

…

Stiles had not anticipated how long he would have to stare into a candle flame.

Stiles had not anticipated how long he would have to think about some guy in a wheelchair.

Stiles had not anticipated the _three hours_ he would spend staring at the little flame at the tip of the candle, burning an image into his eyes. For a long while after the candle had gone out he had no clue. He only saw the afterimage in his eyes and a multitude of black spots and this could _not_ be healthy.

“33,” he read at long last, having blinked away the last of the spots. “33,” he repeated, confused. “That could be anything.”

Laura groaned. “Whatever. Do the fire thing. Do you need a lighter?”

“Nah,” the boy replied. “For all we know butane could mess with the spell. I’ll just use the last candle.” Waving a hand to the still-lit stick at the center of the table, though it had begun to burn low, he shrugged. “That should do that trick well enough.”

“If you say so.” Grabbing at the dish of melted wax, the woman set them aside as Stiles started snatching up what they would need for the next spell.

They shuffled about for a long while, Laura scraping out the bowl they had used and Stiles honestly delaying the time it would take to lay a line of mountain ash around the table. But eventually it was complete; a closed circle of ash that nearly made Laura fall over when she ran into the barrier.

“All ready to go?” she asked, looked over at Stiles with an apprehensive expression.

The boy nodded, stepping back over the line to drop into his previously vacated seat. He grabbed at the bowls at the center of the table, pulling them closer to him. In one was the wheat he had harvested, barely more than shoots. In the other, three strands of hair. The third was a shallower dish than the others, filled with a mix of bread crumbs and salt. This is the bowl Stiles pulled closest, nearly brushing against his chest as he grabbed a piece of wheat and leaned forward to drag it through the candle flame.

He frowned as it simply dragged through unburned.

“It’s supposed to light, isn’t it?” he asked Laura over his shoulder. “Why isn’t it lighting?”

“Maybe that’s the spell part,” she suggested.

“What do you mean, ‘spell part?’” He motioned around him to the empty room, the bowls on the table, and the candle. “Isn’t this _all_ the ‘spell part?’”

The woman shrugged, though she knew Stiles wouldn’t see it. “I knew a witch in New York. She said a lot of the time spells were things people normally did, but what set them apart was the intent and the amount of power they were able to pull out of yourself and put into the action.”

Stiles frowned, but didn’t look away from the candle. “Power? What power?”

“Just, like, reach inside yourself and try to find it.”

“You are super helpful, you know that? The most helpful. Ever.”

She scoffed. “Not gonna lie; not appreciating the sarcasm.”

Stiles turned his eyes away from the wheat for a short second to throw a disappointed look at the woman watching on before heaving a sigh of resignation. Reach inside himself? Not like he hadn’t done that a million times when he was a kid and just discovered Harry Potter.

Not that he ever _found_ anything.

“So what am I searching for, exactly? Like, a spirit animal? Or a dragon hiding in my stomach?”

“How would I know? Do I look like a witch to you?”

“I’ve never met a witch.”

“Trust me; you don’t want to.”

Stiles frowned, throwing another look at Laura over his shoulder before closing his eyes and thinking. Okay, so the wheat wasn’t actually burning, which should defy so, so many laws of physics. But there was the intent there. The intent to do a spell. That was keeping it from burning. All that was left was the power. Something he, in all his random knowledge, did not have.

Stiles leaned back in his chair, running his tongue over the front of his teeth as he shifted to get more comfortable. Searching physically wouldn’t help. No doubt about that. His head? His heart? His _spleen_? It could be any different from searching his heart. They were both muscles.

For a long moment Stiles imagined that his brain was something he could feel (without the aid of a bone saw and a good chunk of his mental health.) He jokingly went over the sections as they had been listed on Wikipedia, starting from the Medulla Oblongata and going from there.

It didn’t take him long to stop shifting entirely, body going still and eyes going wide as he jokingly (now not so jokingly) began to explore the subcortical section of his imaginary (not so imaginary) brain. It felt…

Cold.

_Figures it would be there_ , Stiles realized suddenly, mood going sour. _Of course it would be there_.

“Everything okay?” Laura stepped up to the edge of the circle, eyeing him cautiously.

He nodded. “Yeah, fine. Just give me a minute.” Snatching the piece of wheat from where he’d left it in the bowl, Stiles imagined himself drawing out the cold sensation from his head, holding the stalk over the flame and watching it as it caught fire and sparked. He quickly dropped it in the shallow bowl of salt, then grabbed at the three hairs in the last dish and held them over the sparkling wheat. The boy watched, amazed, as the salt seemed to melt, and suddenly he was staring at bread crumbs floating in the dish. “Whoa…” he breathed, staring at it curiously. There was a flash of something in the bowl – movement, maybe – but then everything went cold.

Everything went black.

…

_“-I’m just saying that if we-”_

_“Nothing excuses magic, Laura. There’s always a price to pay. Always.”_

_“So what? We just sit around waiting for Peter’s scent to pop up? He could be **dead**.”_

Stiles’ head was pounding like a drum and the shouting from the other room was not helping. Pressing his hands into the hard wooden floors beneath him, the boy pushed himself up and onto his knees. Sound was echoing everywhere. It felt like a hangover. And while Stiles had only been hung over all of never, he decided that was very much exactly what it felt like.

Groaning miserably, he clutched his head between his hands and tried to block out the noise.

Thankfully, the voices stopped, but then there were two figures at the edge of his vision, standing just beyond the living room chairs.

“You okay, Stiles?” Laura asked, dropping to her knees as her brother paced nervously back and forth.

Taking account of the situation, the boy realized several things at once. First, the sky outside the window was dark. Second, the line of mountain ash was in place. Third, he had apparently fallen out of his chair and only the floor at some point, which definitely explained the insistent throbbing in his head.

“I’m okay,” he grumbled, rising weakly to his feet, grabbing at the smooth top of the table with unsteady hands. “Just… guh. If it were a concussion I’d be dizzy or something. I’m just…” He took a breath, eyes fluttering shut for a long moment before he continued. “I’m just tired.”

“Break the line,” the Alpha told him solemnly. “Break the line and I’ll get you to bed.”

Stiles made a noise. “Yes. Yeah, bed would be nice.” Slowly stepping over to the line, he dragged his shoe through a small section. Before he knew it, gentle hands were on his shoulders, small and delicate, yet strong.

“I’m going to throw your arm over my shoulder, okay?” she advised him quietly, only to shout, “Derek!” as her brother swooped in with an eyeroll and a scoff, grabbing Stiles by his waist and hoisting him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Laura had the sense to shout, “Put him in the blue guest bedroom,” before Derek had stomped them both up the stairs with a sour expression.

Stiles didn’t know what to make of the situation. On one hand, Derek wasn’t very comfortable. On the other, he was very, very warm. So when it came time for Derek to throw open the door and attempt to toss the human off his shoulder and on to the bed, he hadn’t expected the person who had until that moment been incredibly limp to suddenly cling to him like an octopus.

“Warm,” the boy hissed, legs wrapping resolutely around  Derek’s torso and hands digging deep into the man’s shirt.

Grunting angrily, Derek grabbed Stiles’ waist and all but ripped him off his body, flinging him to the guest bed with a dry expression and a look of disgust. He stormed out of the room, ignoring the annoyed, “Hey!” that followed in his wake as she strode down the hall, down the stairs, and back into the living room.

“Since you’re doing spells behind my back,” he spat, furious, “I think you owe me one.”

Laura glanced up from sweeping up the mountain ash, broom in hand. “You’re kidding, right?”

Derek held up a finger, eyes narrowed. “One person from the list I gave you. Just one.”

Laura’s jaw set stubbornly. “No.”

“Pick one.”

“No.”

“Laura, just look at the list.”

_“No.”_

…

As the final days of winter break came to an end and the new year passed without a single clue as to Peter’s whereabouts, Scott and Stiles returned to school with mixed spirits. As Scott went into long detail as to how he had been texting Allison all throughout winter break, and how she had told him so many things about living in other places, Stiles walked beside him at a halfhearted trudge.

“She’s been to France. Can you believe that? _France_. She’s _fluent_. And you are not listening to me.” Scott trailed off as they Stiles settled automatically in his seat for English, nodding along on instinct. Taking his own seat, Scott stared at his friend curiously. “Purple beet yellow snow.”

Stiles nodded amiably, mumbling his agreement. “Cool.”

“Werewolf hairy armpit.”

The girl sitting in front of Stiles threw them a strange look, but Stiles just nodded amiably.

“Your mother was a hamster.”

“I’m sure she is.”

The older boy watched, alarmed, as his friend pulled out his textbooks and settled them on the table without so much as turning his way. For a long moment he could only gape, mouth falling open before snapping shut with enough force to make his teeth click. Turning to his own things, he pulled out his notebooks, along with his English textbook, and a pen. Other students filed in one by one as they took their seats and waited for the bell to ring.

Scott watches Stiles pull his phone out multiple times throughout the class itself; something that would have been normal if Scott’s phone had been blowing up in reply. But instead it was almost eerily silent.

After class got out, Stiles was on his feet in an instant, eyes still glued to his phone and books shoved haphazardly in his backpack.

Scott knew better than to follow.

…

Stiles was halfway to the cafeteria before he finally ran into Danny.

Or, rather, made eye contact with Danny and promptly turned the fuck around.

The boy was on him in an instant, hand on Stiles shoulder guiding him forward even as the younger teen attempted to all but sprint away from the situation. He didn’t even really know why he was trying to run. Self preservation? Nope. The worst Danny could do was send him down the social ladder – which wasn’t all that possible seeing as he wasn’t even on the social ladder – and kiss him, and…

Yeah, that was still kind of a terrifying thought.

_Okay, yeah. Self preservation_ , he admitted to himself, even as he allowed Danny to guide him through the doors into the basement?

“Is there any possibility of me getting lunch today?” he asked as the door was wrenched open and they stepped onto a dimly lit staircase.

The hand on his shoulder only grew more insistent as they stepped down the stairs, Danny remaining silent during the entire trip. Down they went, further into the basement. Through two more doors. Down three hallways. Finally – in a long corridor where nothing was stacked and the rumbling, clanging noises from the boiler room weren’t too loud or invasive – the older boy brought them to a stop.

“Is this where you brutally murder me?” Stiles inquired quietly, turning to face the older boy. “Because, no offense, you don’t really seem like the type.”

“We need to talk,” Danny replies quietly, shrugging nervously. He looked to the wall on their left, then back to Stiles. “It’s been three weeks since we last hung out.”

“Three weeks since you kissed me, you mean,” the younger boy amended. “Come on. You can say it. It’s not going to kill you.”

Danny took a deep breath, bit his lip, and looked up at Stiles with guiltily narrowed eyes. “Yeah. Three weeks since I kissed you.”

“And you said you were interested. In me.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks. Needed confirmation for that.”

“You’ve been avoiding me ever since,” Danny stated quietly.

“Uh…” Stiles gaped on his own for a second before mumbling, “Well, yeah. Winter break. That’s a thing. That happens. Yes. It’s not like I have your phone number or anything, so it’s not like I could call-”

Danny sighed. “You turned around when I approached you today. It’s not hard to guess that it was intentional.”

The younger boy exhaled slowly, hand reaching up to rub at the side of his face. “I wasn’t – I’ve got a lot of my mind.”

“Look – I’m just going to come out and say it, okay?” When Stiles didn’t look him in the face, the taller boy reached forward to grip his chin, tilting it up until their eyes could meet. “I want to go out with you. You’re smart and silly and you don’t let your social circles rule your personal life.”

Stiles bit down a bitter, _Wanna bet?_

“So whatever issues you’re having with… _this_ ,” Danny continued, voice dropping to a near whisper as he motioned to the space between them, “I… Just…” His voice cut out, and he cleared his throat. “Or if you’re just still transitioning into actively aknowledging your sexulity-”

“Oh, believe me, I’ve acknowledged it,” the younger boy interrupted, fighting back the vivid images of Derek Hale’s well-muscled back and thick arms. “I’m just not sure we should – I don’t know if…” He trailed off, not sure how to finish.

“If… you’re ready to come out yet?”

The suggestion made sense, Stiles decided, even though it didn’t quite cover the whole range of emotions he was feeling. “I think,” he began quietly, not quite sure how else to answer. “I would like to go out with you – I’m just not ready for any questions that might come my way.”

Leaning in close, Danny pressed their foreheads together in a way that had Stiles’ heartbeat skyrocket. “So does that mean you’re willing to be my boyfriend?”

Breath catching in his throat, Stiles found himself unable to answer for a long moment. Pulling away from the contact, he settled fully against the concrete wall as his legs seemed to go a bit rubbery. Slowly, he nodded.

Then Danny was there – Danny was _everywhere_. Leaning close, settling a sweet, chaste kiss against the corner of Stiles’ mouth. Hands, dancing respectfully high on his waist as his fingers sneaked around to the younger boy’s back, gently tugging him into a loose embrace. Feet, planted on either side of his and miraculously keeping him balanced. Their noses slotted together neatly, brushing each other’s cheeks as the Hawaiian boy’s  lower – slightly cracked but slick with chapstick – swooped forward to massage against his, almost as if he were thinking of devouring him.

And Stiles kind of liked that.

When Danny pulled away, Stiles dragged him back with a hand he lightly tangled in the boy’s hair. It was harder this time; more desperate. The younger boy kissed back like he had something to prove; like his kissing prowess mattered. Like it could change something. Danny was the one to slow it down. He cradles the sides of Stiles’ face with his hands, drawing out each motion with a gentle parting of lips before trailing away from the shorter boy’s mouth.

He pressed his mouth first to Stiles’ cheek, then his jaw, then his neck, bypassing his ear entirely. (Stiles was mildly disappointed by this, but decided not to comment. He was expecting to be totally blown away by what was going on. Hadn’t expected to be completely cognizant. But that’s reality for you.) Eventually, when he’d moved down to Stiles’ collarbone, he pressed a light kiss to the last bit of skin before his shirt took over and mumbled, “Come to Lydia’s party with me.”

“The one next month?” Stiles asked weakly. “The one just after Valentines?”

“Yeah,” Danny confirmed, straightening to his full height and pressing a final kiss to the younger boy’s forehead. “We can stay a secret if you want to, but I’d like to take you with me places. If that’s okay.”

“Like… hanging out that’s actually a date, but we don’t tell anyone?”

Danny laughed. “Yeah. Sure.”

“And I don’t have to come out until I’m ready?”

“Nope.”

Stiles sighs, relieved. “Yeah, okay. I can do that. So, just to clarify…” He cleared his throat, then motioned to Danny and himself with a hand. “You, me – in a relationship. You, out. Me, preparing. We have a date in like… a month and a half. And we have yet to exchange phone numbers. Is that all squared away?”

Nodding amusedly, the older boy pulled out his phone. “I guess we should fix that last bit.”

“No shit.”

…

When Derek told Laura she would be meeting a candidate to receive the bite she had imagined a big black boy with hulking muscles and an anger disorder. It seemed like the kind of person Derek would associate with.

Not some pixie-ish little girl, barely five feet tall, with acne and frizzy hair.

After staring them down for nearly ten minutes, watching Derek circle the teen almost predatorily and the girl – Erica – stare back almost _lustily_ in return, Laura decided she had seen enough.

“Stop flirting with her,” she snapped. “We both know you won’t follow through.” As Derek drew back, the older woman watched on in disappointment as Erica’s head flew around to stare at him, almost betrayed. She stepped forward, demanding the younger girl’s attention with a steady hand gripping her chin; forcing the girl to meet her eyes. “You need to be aware of what you’re signing up for. This isn’t going to instantly make you popular, or get you a hot boyfriend. You’ll get strength and speed and longevity, and in return you’ll be hunted.

“I don’t know exactly what Derek told you, but whatever you may think, the bite is not a gift. The bite is a burden. One you are going to have to carry for the rest of your life. You can’t stand out. You can’t lose control. If you do either of these someone is going to track you down, torture you, and kill you. Got that?”

Erica nodded, slowly but surely.

“Say it.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” Pulling back with a toothy grin, Laura settled into a confident stance. “Come back here in a month. If you still want the bite, I’ll warn the hunters we’re expanding our pack.”

Erica nodded somewhat hesitantly, this time, before she rose to her feet.

Laura motioned for the girl to follow as she stepped out of the room and into the hall, leading her down the stairs and motioning for her to leave.

Erica, in a huff, does so, nearly falling down the front steps in her haste to leave.

“Hey Erica,” Laura called after her, resting easily against the door frame.

“Yeah?” the girl replied, nearly a whisper.

The woman grinned. _Fast learner_ , she realized. “You do know there’s a chance the bite can kill you, right?”

Erica just shrugged. “Ever had a seizure?”

“No.”

“Then don’t tell me what can and cannot kill me.” And with this the girl hopped on her bike and rode down the street, leaving the woman behind her softly smiling.

Laura took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and retreated back into the house. She approached the man who had migrated to the couch. Taking note of the book in his hands, the woman settled her hands on his shoulders and leaned forward to whisper gently in his ear, “You did good.”

There was no reaction. No acknowledgement to her words as he carefully turned the page.

Stepping away, Laura tried not to glance back at her brother as she made her way up the stairs, but she did.

And she savored the delicate grin she found there.


	10. Time Bomb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did the math for Danny’s birthday and was surprised to learn a few things. So keep in mind both Danny’s and Stiles’ ages are supported by canon.

February was cold.

Fuck February.

Bundled up in two shirts, three flannels, and an old winter coat, Stiles waddled into school with a scowl and a bright red nose. Wiping miserably at his face, he bitterly spat, “I wish gender roles or society weren’t a thing. Then I could just cling to your overheated ass like a monkey and no one would give a shit.”

“Why can’t you just cling to Danny’s ass?” Scott suggested, more than comfortable in a light jacket. “I don’t think he’d mind.”

“Dude, no. Just no.”

“Would it really be such a big deal? I mean, you already smell _exactly like him_. I can smell the… What’s the stuff he wears again?”

“Armani.”

“Right. I can smell Armani on your backpack. Why can I smell him on your backpack?”

“Because we hang out?” Stiles suggested dryly.

“Because he _likes doing things for you_ ,” Scott whispers conspiratorially, even though they had lucked out and there was almost no one around. “Things like _carrying your bag_ ,” he hinted again. Then, as if that weren’t enough, he added, “Because you’re _dating_.”

Despite how it had been as nearly so low Stiles couldn’t hear it, the younger boy glanced around just to be sure no one had heard. There was one girl working at her locker, fighting with a pile of books and the arms of her too-big sweatshirt, but that was about it. “Could we, I don’t know, _not_ talk about that?”

Stopping in his tracks, Scott fixed the younger boy with a look and said plainly, “Why don’t you just admit you slept with Danny?”

Stiles lunged, slapping his hand over Scott’s mouth before craning his neck to look at the girl at her locker. She was staring at them somewhat curiously, almost as if she were going to make a comment. Before anything else could be said, Stiles practically dragged Scott into a nearby classroom.

“You can’t just say things like that, okay?” he snapped, stepping back from the older boy with a grimace. “What if it gets around? What if it gets to Danny?”

“Look, he’s your boyfriend, okay? Why can’t you tell anyone? Is he making you keep it a secret or something? Why can’t anyone mention him?”

“Scotty, I know you think you’re doing me a favor, but you’re not. Okay? You’re really not.”

Scott looks all too fed up with things as he states simply, “Now it comes out.”

“What?”

“You’re the one making _him_ keep it a secret, aren’t you?” the older boy told him rather than asked. “I didn’t think you were the type to hide, Stiles.”

For a long moment, they just stood there. Then Stiles settled against one of the desks. He chewed nervously at a hoodie string before allowing it to drop to his chest. “I’m not ready for my first gay relationship, okay? I haven’t even had a straight one.”

Scott made a face. “Dude, who says it has to be gay? Why can’t it just be a relationship?”

“Exactly,” Stiles agreed, much to the boy’s surprise. “I can’t think of it any other way, and that’s why I can’t go public with it yet. I’m still thinking of it like… I’m thinking of it as a novelty in my head. Like it’s going to come out and then everything is going to end. And then I’ll have nothing to show for it. No boyfriend, no acceptance of my sexuality, no revelations of self – nothing. I’ll just… I’m worried I’ll be _straight_ again. And until I can think of it any differently there’s no point in going public.”

“You’ll be…” The older boy’s eyes screwed up as he attempted to make sense of what his friend had just said. “That made absolutely no sense.”

“Welcome to my world.”

“So you’re just going to… what?” Scott asked. “Hide?”

“Just keep your mouth shut, okay?” the younger boy deflected. “I’m fifteen. I’m too young for this.”

“Excuse me,” someone called from the door.

The boys glanced over, and were surprised to find a teacher staring down at them with an incredulous expression. “Yes?” they asked in unison.

“If you could vacate my classroom, that would be fantastic.”

“Uh, right. Yeah,” Scott consented as Stiles strode easily out the rear door of the class. “Will do.” Racing after his friend, he slammed the door behind them and strode up to the younger boy with an easy grin. “So, you still going to Lydia’s party tonight?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because, uh, I have a date.”

Stiles scowled. “How did _you_ get a _date_?”

…

_Knock-knock-knock._

Laura waited politely, as any person would, for someone to answer the door. When, after five minutes of waiting, this did not happen she knocked again.

_Knock-knock-knock._

After another five minutes, she sighed and knocked again.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

“I know you’re in there,” she continued at a lower tone, attention fixed on the living, breathing body just beyond the door. “Don’t make me call the police and ask them to check if you’re okay. I’m friends with the Sheriff’s kid. We can do this like normal people, Mr. Argent. I think we’d both prefer that over you shooting me full of poisoned arrows on a nice run under the full moon.”

Without much of a warning, the door was yanked open and Chris Argent stared down at Laura with a grim expression and a hissed, “We don’t kill unprovoked.”

“Define unprovoked,” Laura snapped, stepping into the threshold with a sneer. “Where’s the matriarch?”

“Allison is at school. Whatever you need to say to her you can say to me.”

The woman made a small noise in the back of her throat at this, examining the house with appeasement – wood floors, lace doilies, excess photos of family – before turning to the hunter with a grin. “Pity. From the way Scott describes her she may be the sanest Argent to ever walk the planet.”

“What do you want?” Chris snapped, meeting her eyes with a dark expression.

“Permission to expand my pack without immediate militarized response,” Laura replied easily, tone almost teasing as she carefully grabbed a photo frame from a decorative table nearby to stare at the girl in it wistfully. “Is this Allison? She’s adorable. The dimples are incredible. Good work with her genes.”

Snatching the frame out of her hands, Chris extended a hand to indicate they should move into the living room. “After you,” he hissed.

The woman happily flounced in the direction of the living room, only to pause as a familiar scent hit her. Glancing around, her eyes laid on a rather dilapidated pair of sneakers stowed beneath a table, as if thrown there one night and forgotten. “What’s with the shoes?”

“Why? You recognize them?”

Laura shook her head no, figuring it would be best not to mention that yes, she did recognize them. They belonged to one socially stunted teenager who liked to hang around werewolves because he was an absolute _idiot_. “No, they just smell bad.” With this as her meager explanation, she took a seat on one of the couches, which should couldn’t decide were old fashioned or modern. The entire house felt like that, really. “So, I recommend paperwork,” she announced grandly as Chris took a seat opposite her. “Lots of signed documents saying you can’t shoot at me or my betas since we’re expanding the pack.”

“First tell me about the people you intend to turn,” the man insisted. “Who they are, and how many of them you plan to bite.”

Rolling her eyes, the woman settled back into the couch and laid her hands on her knees before telling him evenly, “Just one. A girl named Erica.”

“What’s her motivation for receiving the bite?”

Laura shrugged. “Her motivations are her own.”

“I need-”

“Look, her motivations don’t matter. I’m not going to feed you a sob story and have you say no to any more requests after this. The fact is we made her aware, she consented to the bite, we’ve given her a whole month to think about this, and we need you not to shoot at her just because she can’t control herself for a while. You can even put a clause in the contract that if she attacks anyone in her formative months as a beta, you have full rights to shoot at me for not keeping her away from crowds.”

“We’re not going to sign a contract,” Chris told her firmly. “I just need to know why she’s consenting to the bite and whether or not it’s worth the risk of going after you.”

Laura stared. “You’re kidding, right?”

“The Nemeton has brought a number of supernatural creatures to this area. Forgive me if we’ve learned discretion.”

The woman stared at him for a long moment, shocked, before making a pleased face and leaning forward, nodding amiably. “She’s epileptic.”

“Not worth it,” Chris stated simply.

Laura’s eyes narrowed, mouth twisting in a sneer. “How do I know you’re not bluffing?”

“Think about it for a second,” the man began, crossing his arms. “You bite someone like that, the medical community will be in a uproar. People don’t just get better from something like that overnight. For at least six months doctors will be taking blood samples; brain scans; photographs that won’t actually come out right. For a good while she will be surrounded by journalists and doctors and even lawyers.

“The moment she’s taken care of, everyone will be asking why. It won’t be an open and shut case – it’ll be a bloodbath of policies and lawsuits until someone finds out who put her down. So let me tell you again.” Leaning forward, the man bared his teeth as he brutally spat, “Not worth it.” Leaning back into his chair, Chris fell silent.

After a long, tense moment, Laura announced, “We’re turning her this evening,” before rising to her feet. “Good chat.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t happen again,” the hunter snapped in reply.

They made their way to the door, Chris politely opening it for her before ushering her out of the house and slamming the door behind her.

Laura jumped as thunder rolled overhead, and a sudden onslaught of rain beat the pavement. “First freezing temperatures and now pouring rain?” the woman muttered, stepping out into the downpour. “I thought I lived in California.”

…

The moment the final bell rang, Erica was out of her seat and racing to the front doors of the school. No one asked questions. No one approached her. There were no friends to ask her how she was doing or where she was going. There was only the Camaro parked out front and the man in the front seat.

Popping wide open as she approached, the door was her greeting. She launched herself into the passenger seat, adjusting her oversized hoodie until it wasn’t riding up as she settled into leather. “Let’s get this party started!” she cheered, slamming the door behind her and wiping at her now damp hair.

Derek peeled out of the parking lot, guiding the car smoothly around the curves in the road and kicking up reams of water onto the sidewalks.

Erica watched him as he did so, curious. Gone was the easy flirtation he had first greeted her with; something she quickly learned was nothing more than an act. A convincing act, but an act none-the-less. “It’s the big day,” she whispered excitedly.

He grunted.

The girl rolled her eyes. “What subject do I have to bring up to get you talking? The weather?”

“I don’t really talk about the weather,” he bit out, grimacing and switching the windshield wipers to a higher setting.

“What, then? Gossip? I’m not very good at that. The only thing I really know that other people don’t is that apparently Stilinski is fucking Mahealani, but-” She choked as the car swerved dangerously, throwing her to the side of her seat and forcing the seat belt into the throat. As they pulled to a stop at the side of the road, she choked out a cry of, “Oh my god, did we just hydroplane?!”

“No.”

“Then what the hell just happened?” Erica screamed, turning on the man, expression terrified. As her eyes lit on the man, half-transformed in the driver’s seat, her face went slack. “Is everything alright?”

“I’m fine,” Derek hissed. He pried his fingers from the steering wheel, taking a deep breath, then another, and another. Finally his claws retracted. The hair that had sprouted from the sides of his face sunk back beneath the skin. His eyes, though, remained a steady, glowing, fierce blue. “But if you’re going to talk about something, don’t talk about that.”

Hesitantly, Erica nodded. “So did Laura get permission to turn me?”

“I don’t know,” Derek snapped. “She would have just left the Argent’s.”

…

The moment Stiles pulled out in front of the Argent home and Allison came running out to greet them, cute as a bean in a short purple dress and a bright yellow umbrella, Stiles grabbed at the neck of Scott’s shirt and dragged him back from greeting her. “Mind telling me why – or how, really – you have a date with Allison freaking _Argent_?”

“It’s, uh, not a date.”

Stiles’ eyebrows shop up. “What did you just say? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure you just said it wasn’t a date.”

“It’s a not-date,” Scott pointed out. “Like what you and Danny are doing, but backwards.”

“Backwards? How is this backwards?” Stiles smiled amiably and waved as he said this, giving Allison the warm greeting she deserved as she looked both ways before crossing the street to get at the car.

“Well, you’ll be on a date but everyone will be thinking you’re just hanging out. Meanwhile, Allison and I will be hanging out, but everyone is going to think it’s a date.”

The younger boy made a noise like the surprise had been punched out of him. “That’s actually a very valid point.”

Wrenching the door open, Allison slid into the back seat with a grin. “It’s really pouring out there,” she laughed.

“Yup. Hey, Scott, think you could give up shotgun?” Stiles asked.

Scott frowned. “Why?”

Allison leaned forward, shifting her weight onto the center console. “How come?”

“We’ve got one more person to pick up,” he tells them quickly, putting the car in gear and pulling away from the sidewalk. “Buckle up!”

…

“What are the chains for?” Erica scoffed, testing the cuffs clipped to her wrists. She glanced around the room, taking in the lack of furnishings and concrete walls.

“They’re for when you change,” Laura warned her. “Do you know what today is?”

“The eighteenth.”

“A _full moon_ ,” Laura corrected. “You’re going to experience everything it means to be a werewolf tonight, whether you like it or not. Now…” She trailed off, rolling her neck slowly around, stretching it, until she dropped her head forward, mouth hanging open and fangs dropped. “Where do you want the bite?”

…

Pulling in front of a small set of apartments, Stiles parked the car and took a deep breath before turning toward Allison as the Jeep fell silent. “Hey, can I borrow your umbrella for a second?”

The girl shrugged, handing it over without complaint. “Sure. Just don’t twist the base,” she said just as he grabbed it.

Stiles scoffed. “Don’t twist the base? That’s what she-” he began, taking hold of it and settling it in his hand. And apparently the base was very, very touchy as a six inch blade sprang out from the tip and pierced the headrest of the passenger seat. “Oh my _god_!”

“I told you not to twist the base.”

“Gaah,” the younger boy whinged, ignoring Scott’s laughter from the back seat.

Allison grabbed the base, twisting it the other direction to retract the blade.

“Uh, thanks,” Stiles muttered, carefully opening his door and easing the umbrella out first. He popped it, and suddenly it wasn’t so dangerous now that whatever blade couldn’t jump out and stab or maim anyone. He jogged up the steps toward the front of the apartments, knocking lightly on the one labeled “18G.”

When an older man with a strong jaw pulled open the door, Stiles quickly retreated. “Sorry – I have the wrong place.”

“You must be Stiles.”

The boy froze halfway down the steps, then turned slowly to face the man with a hesitant expression. “Yes?”

“I’m Danny’s father, Keone Mahealani. He’s still getting ready. Would you mind coming in for a minute?”

Without much else to do, Stiles nodded politely and made his way back over to the door. He closed the umbrella, stepping around Mr. Mahealani and into the threshold with a blank expression.

“You must be Stiles,” a woman said sweetly, black hair coiled over her shoulder in a braid. “I’m Zelda, his mother. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

For all of thirty seconds, the boy nearly had a meltdown before he realized, yes, real people had the name Zelda. It wasn’t just a video game character, and this woman was most definitely born before Link was a thing.

“I, uh. Yes. Night to neat – I mean, nice to meet you.”

“We’ve been hearing a lot about you lately,” Zelda informed him sweetly.

“Really?”

“Of course,” Keone laughed. “Don’t you tell your parents these sorts of things?”

“I’m not… out yet,” he admitted quietly.

The conversation stopped in its tracks as Danny’s parents gave him the stink eye. Thankfully, Danny chose that moment to burst out of his room and drag Stiles out of the house.

“I don’t think your parents like me.”

“Obviously,” the taller boy drawled, hopping over a puddle and practically running to Stiles’ jeep.

Stiles looked down at the umbrella in his hands, officially useless. They crawled into the car quickly, wiping at their damp hair and spitting curses. “It is seriously coming down out there,” he manages around chattering teeth.

Warm hands settled on his chin, pulling him into a soft, heated kiss.

The younger boy shot back with a squeak. “People in backseat,” he whined a bit belatedly, eyes flicking to Allison.

Danny grinned. “She already knows. She’s best friends with Lydia.”

Stiles gaped. “Why does _Lydia_ know?”

“Because she’s dating Jackson.”

“Why does _Jackson_ know?!” he sputtered.

“Because Jackson’s my best friend,” Danny stated simply. “It’s a pretty closed circle. Now, can we get going?” he teased, motioning toward the road with one hand.

Stiles groaned.

…

Pacing the length of the house’s borders for what felt like the fiftieth time, Derek scented the air for any change. He didn’t expect any. It had been nearly three hours since Erica was bitten and if anyone were to come to attack them they would have come by then.

It was this – his lax attitude and the influence of the full moon overhead – that made him oblivious to the figure in the shadows until it lunged for his throat.

…

The party was in full swing when Stiles got the text; a simple _SOS @ Den_.

“What’s up?” Danny asked as Stiles made deliberate and immediate eye contact with Scott accross the room.

“I really, really have to go. I’ll be back in forty minutes, I swear,” Stiles told him, glancing between the crowd and Danny’s confused face.

“Sure, I guess. If it’s really an emergency,” the older boy muttered, slightly put out.

Stiles grinned. “Thanks. You’re the best,” he bubbled, pressing a quick, hard kiss to his boyfriend’s lips before sprinting out the door, Scott hot on his heels.

Behind him, the entire group seemed to freeze.

“Did Stilinski just kiss you?” someone asked incredulously.

“Trust me,” Jackson warned them. “You want to forget that just happened.”

Ignorant of what was going on around him, Danny stared after his boyfriend with wide, impressed eyes.

…

Thankfully, the rain had seemed to subside while Stiles and Scott had been at the party, and had thankfully diminished to a negligible drizzle. Not-so-thankfully, Stiles ran out of gas half a mile from the nearest gas station and Scott had to get out and push for ten minutes before they spent the next ten minutes filling up. This turned what should have been a five minute trip into nearly twenty.

When they hopped back into the car, the boys were filled to the brim with nervous energy

By the time they pulled up to Laura’s house, they were greeted with the sight of two very pissed off Hale siblings, covered in more than a little blood.

“What happened?” Stiles squeaked.

“Whoever attacked Scott in the woods is back,” Laura told him quietly. “That’s all you really have to know.”

Scott jumped. “It’s here? Where? Did you kill it?”

Derek scoffed, and Stiles tried to ignore the sheer quantity of blood painting his front. He watched, shocked, as the man turned and made his way inside the house.

“We didn’t kill it, so it might come back.” Motioning to the house with one hand, she inclined her head at Scott. “I need to stay with Erica tonight, so do you think you could mind the perimeter while Derek heals?”

“Erica? That’s the new Beta, right?” Scott asked innocently.

“What about the party?” Stiles chips in. “I said we’d be back in forty minutes. It’s been twenty-five. We can’t just leave them – I’m their ride home.”

“You go back. I’m gonna stay,” Scott told him quickly. “Tell Allison I’m sorry.”

“But-” Stiles began.

“Once Derek’s changed, take him with you,” Laura interrupts at a whisper. “If we make him feel like he’s needed to escort you safely to the party he’ll give himself the chance to heal.”

“I-” Stiles glanced from Scott, then to Laura, then threw his hands up in exasperation. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

…

They were not kidding.

“So…” Stiles began conversationally, glancing over to his taciturn passenger and trying to ignore the swath of blood still clinging to his ear. “How about them Metts?”

Derek, in all his glory as the greatest social-butterfly to ever grace the Earth, didn’t so much as twitch to acknowledge that anyone else existed in the entire world, let alone sat not six inches from him and was _asking him a question_.

“You’re a talkative one,” the boy drawled darkly. Then he laughed, mouth going crooked and jaw slack. “You know, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you talk to anyone other than Laura. Is there a reason for that or are you just an asshole?”

No reply.

“Eh. No skin off my back,” he mumbled, pulling to a stop before a traffic light. The rain chose that moment to pick up again, pounding against the roof of the Jeep and earning a groan. “God, not this again. Should I take the main road or go the long way through the forest? I mean, going through the preserve would take longer, but there would be less water on the pavement, which is helpful.”

Again, no reply. The light turned green.

Stiles continued straight down the main road with a roll of his eyes. "Yeah, okay. You’ve only been here for what? A few months? Can't really expect you to know the town that well, yet. And can I just say the not talking thing is creepy? 'Cause it is, and you're kind of freaking me out.

“I mean, yeah, I get it. Your family was burned alive and you were raised by your sister. But that was like six years ago. What were you, thirteen? I know you look like you're thirty and stuff, but I know you're really nineteen because you were totally in fourth grade when I was in Kindergarten. That happened. That was a thing. We went to school together.”

Pulling off the main road, Stiles continued down the side street and approached the cluster of cars that made up the pavement around Lydia’s house. He could hear the activity from there; the loud music and cheering teenagers. It was a surprise no one had filed a noise complaint.

“And, just FYI, the world isn't going to bend over backwards to cover for your whole 'not talking' thing forever. 'Cause if you only talk to Laura for the rest of your life you're going to be miserable and alone in some leaky little shack off the coast of Alaska freezing your little furry ass off all alone with everyone you know dead, and you an old fart, all because you can't bark for a treat when someone tells you to speak." Guiding the car into the spot he’d left behind, Stiles put it in park and turned it off.

"You're a little snot, you know that?" Derek snarled.

Stiles turned to him with a wide, toothy grin. "Did you just-"

Taking hold of the side of Stiles’ head, Derek celebrated his first exchange of words with the boy by smashing his face into the steering wheel.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” the boy hissed, clutching at his forehead with a groan. “ _You stupid dick_.” But the werewolf had already left, leaving Stiles alone in the car clutching his face like an idiot.

…

When Stiles arrived back at the party, he tossed a quick text to Danny and Allison telling them he was back, hoping he’d have the chance to let the redness in his face go down.

As luck would have it, not two minutes later his boyfriend arrived in the foyer and practically stomped up to him.

“What happened to your forehead?” Danny hissed, face twisting in concern as his fingers came up to cradle the side of Stiles’ head, attempting to get a better look at it.

“What you’re seeing is what happens when your face collides with a steering wheel.”

Danny’s jaw dropped, as did his eyes. Staring the younger boy down, he gasped, “How did you manage that?”

As Allison approached, Stiles bit his lip and prepared to lie through his teeth. “I was in my car, and there was a dog-”

“You hit a dog?!” Danny nearly shouted, earning the attention of nearly everyone loitering in the entryway.

“No, no! No dog hitting going on here. Any dogs that may or may not have almost been hit were long gone before any dog-hitting could occur.” _The dog being Derek_ , he added mentally.

Slowly, everyone who had turned to look at them returned to their individual conversations, voices lost beneath the pound of the music and the static of the rain.

“Now that that’s settled,” Allison interjected, “mind telling me where Scott is?”

Glancing over at Danny, Stiles leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Derek was attacked. Scott stayed there to keep the place safe.”

As he pulled away, the girl gave him a look. “Why aren’t you still there, then?”

“I’m kind of useless,” he admitted quietly, tapping his chest. “Nothing here but skin and bones.”

“In that case, ‘skin and bones’ can join me in a dance,” Danny drawled, snatching up the raised hand and tugging it in the direction of the dance floor. “Come on.”

“What-” Stiles managed before he was stumbling after the boy, waving a confused goodbye to Allison and struggling to keep up. It wasn’t long before they were in the main room, and Danny was pulling him close with a grin. Despite what Stiles had thought would happen, no one paid them any attention as his hands draped somewhat possessively over his boyfriend’s shoulders.

“See that?” the taller boy leaned forward to say into his ear. “No one cares. We’re just as alone here as we would be at home. That’s the beauty of parties.” He pulled back with a smile, and pressed a soft kiss to Stiles’ forehead before his hands dropped to the younger boy’s hips, guiding them back and forth against his. “Everyone is so focussed on having a good time they don’t see anyone else.”

“That’s…” Stiles trails off, looking his boyfriend in the eye for all of two seconds before burying his head in the boy’s shoulder. “If you say so.”

He didn’t know what to think about the alcohol on Danny’s breath.

They danced like they had at the club, although with a bit more restraint. There was very little grinding, and their legs remained firmly separate. Never the less, it wasn’t long before Stiles felt the beginnings of an erection. As soon as he realized this he blushed a bright red and made to pull away. But then Danny was laughing, pushing him in the direction of the hallway with a wide grin and a, “Why so shy, now? You’re always so eager at school.”

“Eager about what?” Stiles asked, allowing himself to be lead past a number of drunk kids and a few rooms.

Then he was being pushed through a door. He stumbled over his own feet, but managed to catch himself on a toilet seat before the other boy locked them in. Danny was there in an instant, had manhandled him to sit on the toilet and tugged down his jeans. Stiles hissed as his dick popped through the slit in his boxers. There was the tearing of foil, and the next thing Stiles knew Danny was rolling a purple condom over his dick. “What are you-” He cut off as his boyfriend suddenly sunk down, latching his lips over the tip of Stiles’ sheathed cock and swirling his tongue around the head.

Stiles gasped a string of profanities as he moved his hips in rabbitty thrusts against Danny’s throat as he came almost instantly, choking back what would have no doubt been an embarrassing whimper. The older boy sucked him through it, gripping and stroking the length he couldn’t swallow with long, practiced motions.

The kiss to follow was sloppy and wet, tasting of grapes and alcohol. And as Danny pulled him into his arms, burying his face in the line of Stiles’ neck, the younger boy found himself biting his lip against the sudden weight of guilt burrowing deep in his stomach.

“I think love you,” Danny had whispered brokenly into the soft flesh beneath his mouth, voice barely audible over the pounding of the music just beyond the door. “Oh god, I’ve been thinking it for days. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

A lot of things went through Stiles’ mind at that moment. Shouldn’t he want to say it back? Or did everything people said about the ‘right time, right place’ actually have some weight to it? Stiles quickly realized that Lydia Martin’s bathroom should have been the last place for a confession of that caliber. Was Danny just being unromantic? Stiles hadn’t thought that was possible.

“Dammit, Danny,” was all he could bring himself to mutter. “How much have you had to drink?”

The boy pulled away, face flushed and somewhat disappointed. “I’m not drunk, Stiles.” Slipping the condom off Stiles’ softened penis, Danny expertly tied it and tossed it in the trash.

Suddenly there was a whole new kind of sour taste in the younger boy’s mouth as he realized what Danny must have been doing to get that kind of practice. “I know this is a weird question to ask right now, but how old are you exactly?” When all he received was a weird look, he added, “Like, I know you’re a Junior, like Jackson and Lydia, but I don’t know exactly how old you are.”

“I’m four.”

“Haha. Very funny. But seriously – how old are you?”

Danny snorted, shaking his head. “I am serious. My birthday’s on Leap Year.” He paused, sounding satisfied with himself. “Legally, I’ll be turning eighteen in two weeks.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “I’m a Senior, not a Junior.”

Stiles hissed a breath through his teeth, then exhaled it slowly. “This is a problem.”

“How is this a problem?”

“How is this-” Stiles choked back a series of noises. “Statutory!”

“Stiles, we both know even the police don’t actually care about age of consent after sixteen.”

“ _My birthday isn’t until April_. I’m _fifteen_ and you are about to become a _legal adult_.”

Danny went dead silent for a long moment, staring the younger boy straight in the eye as his thoughts slowly began to process. Pointing to the boy, as if hoping that hand signals would clear things up, he asked, “You’re fifteen?”

“Yeah.”

“Crap.”

Stiles sighed. “We are officially a ticking time bomb.”

“Not really. We just need to make everyone think we’re not having sex.”

“Too late.”

“What?”

“Scott’s already convinced we’re fucking. Something about my backpack smelling like your cologne. And, in case you didn’t already know, my dad’s the _sheriff_.”

For a long while, neither of them spoke. In that time, two people tried to get into the bathroom, knocking insistently when they found it was locked. The sound of the rain was louder there, the window playing a bitter tune of snaps and cracks as it was pelted with fat droplets.

“Why don’t we wait?” Danny suggested.

Stiles’ eyebrows rose. “What?”

“Why don’t we wait until your birthday?”

“Do my ears deceive me, or did you just suggest we wait two whole months to have sex after blowing me in Lydia Martin’s bathroom?”

“Come on,” Danny drawled, stepping away in the direction of the door. “Let’s get back to the party.”

Tucking himself away, Stiles zipped up his jeans and muttered, “Is that your way of saying no?”

“We’re waiting, Stiles.”

…

They didn’t wait very long.

Upon learning Allison planned to stay overnight, Danny had waited all of an hour before dragging Stiles back to the Jeep. They were soaked within seconds of stepping out the front door, and dripping by the time they arrived at the car. Almost as if a switch had been flipped, Danny was all hands, pressing Stiles against the driver-side door and mouthing at the curve of his boyfriend’s chin as his fingers scrambled over bony hips, pulling the younger boy far closer than they had been inside.

Eventually they made it to the passenger side door, hopping into the seat – Stiles straddling Danny’s hips after some fumbling, with Danny flat on his back as they made the chair recline – and fumbling with their shirts as the storm turned sharp. Wind whistled ominously outside the car as their desperate gasps for air between needy kisses were drowned out by the suddenly deafening torrent.

Tossing their shirts into the back seat, the boys fell together with a wet slap of skin. Danny’s mouth was immediately on his, tongue delving into his wide open mouth and meeting his in a spark of sensation. Stiles tingled where their skin met, and as he adjusted his leg against the seat cushion he sunk his hands into Danny’s hair. He could feel the scrape of stubble against his cheek. Recently shaved, and sharp enough to be five o’clock shadow. It was harshest around his upper lip, but he didn’t pay it any mind.

Drawing his leg up, Danny slowly drew his knee across Stiles’ groin with avid determination. He grinned when the younger boy’s mouth fell away from his.

The older boy’s mouth moved, but Stiles couldn’t make out what he was saying over the rain. “What?” he shouted back as he pulled further away, voice cracking.

“Where are you more sensitive?” Danny asked loudly. His hand migrated to the crotch of the boy’s jeans, and before long his grip on Stiles’ cock through was almost possessive. “Shaft or head?”

Stiles honestly had to think before he could answer, “Shaft.” He then watched with morbid curiosity as Danny undid his jeans for the second time that night and pulled out his semi-hard penis. And Stiles… Stiles felt a bit inadequate. So, without much else to do, he reached for Danny’s zipper.

“Fuck, yes,” the older boy hissed when Stiles’ hands got on him, fighting with the button of his jeans before managing to undo them properly. He watched, as rapt as Stiles had ever seen him, as his boyfriend reached into his briefs and pulled out his length.

Staring down at it, Stiles held it carefully in one hand while measuring it against his hand. “Is this some Hawaiian bullshit or something?”

“What?”

“You’re fucking huge.”

“I’m six feet tall.”

“Yeah, and I’m five-eleven. You don’t see me whipping my dick out to use it as a kickstand.”

Rolling his eyes, Danny gripped the younger boy’s dick tight and tugged.

“Distraction tactics won’t work on me,” Stiles announced, focus sharp. “Seriously. I masturbate, like, four times a day.” As if to prove his point, he gripped Danny firmly in both hands, massaging the underside of the shaft with one and squeezing the head with the other, twisting them evenly and drawing out a groan of surprise.

Danny licked his lip, then bit it, and before long his hand on Stiles’ dick went limp as he gave himself in, wholly, to the sensation of Stiles’ hands in lieu of gripping the seat like a lifeline. “F-fuck…” he gasped after a long while, not able to say much else.

“Not just yet,” Stiles pointed out. “We’re waiting, remember?”

“If you’re half as good with your mouth as you are with your hands, I’m going to have to propose to it,” Danny mumbled. Eyes glassy, the boy leaned forward just enough to see the younger teen’s dick, and reached for it ineffectively.

“What’s up?” Twisting the older boy’s dick deftly, Stiles watched with grim amusement as he threw his head back and whined.

After a few full-body twitches, Danny managed to say, “Put our dicks together. Trust me.”

“I…” The boy made a noise at the back of his throat. “Okay, I guess,” he mumbled before grabbing his own penis and grabbing it along with Danny’s. It didn’t take long before he was gasping; thrusting into the palm of his hand and against his boyfriend’s writhing torso. Coming across the stomach beneath him, taught with muscle.

Ten minutes later, Danny dragged him down from his sitting position and onto his chest. “Come on. Let’s take a nap.”

“I can’t sleep without my pillow,” was all Stiles could manage before he passed out in the older boy’s arms.


	11. The Iron Knife

Waking up the following morning was a slow, easy process. Stiles didn’t think he’d ever slept so well in his life, even with his ass half-frozen and his entire torso a sweaty mess. Danny was a comfortable wall of muscle beside him, radiating warmth at a rate that Stiles nearly mistook for supernatural. And as he blinked open his eyes, he slowly became aware of his first ever “morning after.” Birds chirped merrily, soft whitish-blue light filtered through frosted windows, and a large shadow pinned Danny to his seat as he thrashed against dark hands.

Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin, grabbing at the side of the Jeep and jerking himself into a sitting position. But just as he righted himself there was no shadow. No person perched over Danny. No hands on his chest. No _thrashing_.

Looking down at Danny, Stiles took all of two seconds to blink the sleep out of his eyes before his hands fumbled for the door handle. He nearly fell out of the Jeep in his haste. Thankfully no one was outside to see his pants slip down around his thighs, and his boxers drop just below his ass. His hands flew to them in a desperate rush. When he was all settled – boxers secure and zipper done up like a good little boy – he scrambled for his phone and scrolled through his contacts list in a level of panic he hadn’t felt since Scott was bitten. For a long moment his thumb hovered over the “send” button.

Without warning, his body had begun to shake.

It started in his knees, knocking them together like too many marbles in a bag. This sent him sprawling into the side of the Jeep, clutching at the seam of the door and window like a man possessed before sliding gently to the ground; onto the layer of ice that had covered even the inclined concrete. Then came his hands, and his head, and then his entire torso. He tried to even out his breathing; clutched at his chest as his heart pounded, pounded, _pounded_.

“Now is not the time for a panic attack,” he told himself angrily, phone clenched painfully tight in his right hand. His thumb rest against the side of the casing in lieu of the screen. Each finger had turned a stark white; the pressure against the plastic keeping the blood from flowing. It was when Stiles noticed this that he carefully moved his other hand to make the call, pressing the phone to his cheek and taking long, shaky breaths as it connected.

After four rings, the line clicked open.

“ _Hello?_ ” Laura groaned from the other end of the line, voice thick with sleep. “ _Stiles? I just got to sleep. Why are you calling?_ ”

“Have you ever had an encounter of the fourth dimension?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, hanging heavily in the air as the other line filled with static and a yawn.

“ _It’s…_ ” She groaned, and there was a bit of shuffling before she continued, tone biting. “ _Stiles, it’s 7:41 in the morning. The full moon **literally** does not set for another sixteen minutes. I have been up **all night** in **freezing weather** and you are being **vague**._ ”

“I don’t know what’s going on, okay?” Stiles told her quietly, voice shaky. “Look, I woke up this morning and something was on top of Danny-” He cut off as a groan drifted from inside the Jeep. A few seconds later he continued, voice low. “I think it was a Nocnitsa.”

“ _Nocnitsas are normal, Stiles. They rarely, if ever, kill people. It’s not a big deal. Just tell your boyfriend not to sleep on his back._ ”

“And tell him what? That a dark demon is sucking out his soul while he sleeps?”

“ _I don’t know, okay? This is why I don’t get involved with people who don’t know about us. It’s too much of a hassle to explain everything._ ”

There was a thump from inside the Jeep, and then the clicking of a door being opened.

“I‘m sorry,” Stiles mumbled quickly, leaning out of the way of the wide sheet of metal as it suddenly dug into his back. “We are experiencing technical difficulties.”

“ _Stiles-_ ” Laura began.

“Please hang up and try again later,” he added, cutting her off before pulling the phone away from his ear and ending the call. The boy shot to his feet, standing a decent distance from the Jeep as Danny threw his legs out the side of the door and groaned. “Sleep well?”

Danny scoffed. Running one hand through his hair, he shook his head with a grin. “Car seats aren’t my thing, I guess,” he mumbled.

“That bad, huh?” Stiles asked. “Maybe you’re not a back sleeper,” he suggested hopefully.

He shrugged. “Maybe.” For a moment the side of his lips twitched, and then he glanced up at Stiles beneath his eyelashes. Beckoning with his fingers, he grinned and said, “Come ‘ere.”

Stiles moved forward on the command, biting his lip to keep his worries to himself before settling between Danny’s knees. It wasn’t long before their mouths were pressed together, and a heat was budding in his stomach that he was fast becoming familiar with.

Bisexual.

It was still a word to him, but it was starting to make sense.

_Bisexual_.

He could do this.

He could definitely do this.

…

Erica watched as Laura jammed her finger into the end call button on the phone. “Who was that?” she asked, voice hoarse, clutching the blanket closer around her shoulders.

The alpha glanced over with a frown. Erica seemed so small beside the basement’s door frame, her makeshift coverings trailing across the floor and the stairs up from beneath the house as she stepped into the room, thick smudges beneath her eyes betraying how little sleep she’d gotten the night before. “It’s nothing. Just a member of the pack calling in for advice.”

“Derek said you guys didn’t have any more pack.”

Laura smiled, storing her phone in her back pocket. “We do. His name’s Scott – he’s outside. You might know him. He goes to your school.”

The girl nodded weakly. “McCall. Yeah. We have Math and History together.” She bit her lip, letting it out slowly before she asked, “Does Stiles know about us, too?”

Heaving a quiet sigh, the older woman smiled weakly. “Yeah. That was him on the phone, actually.” She let her eyes linger on the girl’s bare ankles before shaking her head to clear it, grinning big. “I’m sorry – where are my manners? Do you need anything to wear? Your clothes must be shredded.”

…

Scott frowned. “Okay, so you’re boyfriend may or may not be having his soul sucked out by a demon at night.”

“Yeah.”

“And there’s no information on how to get rid of it?”

Stiles shrugged, dodging around a group of Freshmen as they made their way towards the front doors of the school. “What can I say? Everyone was so busy with their hardons for Greek Mythology that nobody thought to preserve anything else.”

The older boy made a face. “I have a feeling we’ve talking about this before.”

“Pretty sure we have. Anyway, there’s nothing online about Nocnitsas. In fact, they were only vaguely mentioned in the books I read.”

“How do you know it’s a Nocnitsa?” Scott suggested, dodging around another group of students as they finally arrived at their lockers. “Why can’t it be something else? Like a demon or a…” He paused, eyes on his locker for a long moment before he glanced back over at Stiles. “.. a _tree spirit_ or something?”

“Because tree spirits don’t suck sleep out of people.”

“Huh.” The older boy made a face and nodded before turning back towards his locker, storing the books he would need for the day. “In that case, why don’t you ask someone who knows about the supernatural world?”

Stiles nodded quietly. “That was going to be my fallback, but I’d rather check my options before I have to come within twenty feet of her brother.” His hand unconsciously went to his forehead, rubbing the deep purple bruise he found there until he winced and dragged it away.

“What’s your beef with him, anyway? Like, I get he’s rude and doesn’t really talk much, but twenty feet? Seriously?”

“I’m allowed my own opinion.”

“Well, your own opinion can wait. We’ve got class.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Speaking of things to do,” Scott began happily, zipping up his backpack and slamming his locker shut before they began making their way over to Stiles’. He slid the strap over his shoulder, a small grin overtaking his face. “Lacrosse tryouts are coming up. You in?”

“Scotty, as much as I would have agreed without thinking six weeks ago, I’ve got a boyfriend. I’m good. I literally have no desire to go out and get my bones broken.”

The older boy made a face. “But Danny was on Varsity last year,” he announced, as if this changed things. “He was the goalie. He’s going to be on the team again this year.”

“Yeah, he’s good at Lacrosse. What does that have to do with me?” Fighting with the combination on his lock, he cheered internally when it popped open. That would never not be satisfying.

Leaning against a nearby locker, Scott made a dismissive noise. “Well, I figured you could spend time together that way.”

“Uh huh. ‘Cause wearing masks and shoving our shoulders into other people’s spleens is an excellent way to bond.” Stiles laughed at his own joke for all of two seconds before he pulled his locker open and everything in it took a nose dive for the floor. He stared at his for a short while, almost as if disappointed that was all that happened. _An avalanche of books,_ he thought to himself. _That’s the worst you can manage?_ Leaning over, his scooped up his things into his arms and began feeding papers back into the locker.

The older boy made as if to help Stiles, but ended up holding back with a shrug. “Look, I don’t know, okay? I’m just so used to you trying to impress Lydia by… doing stuff. Like joining the Lacrosse team.”

“Dude, did you miss the part where I have no need to impress Lydia? Because have you seen my boyfriend? He’s a god. Just looking at his abs makes me want to sacrifice a small, furry animal.” Shoving the last of his things into his locker, the boy forced what he could into his backpack before turning to his friend with a somewhat satisfied expression. This was met with the wide, open, vacant expression on his best friend’s face. “Did something in your brain die while I wasn’t looking?”

“A small, furry animal, huh?”

Stiles went instantly still at the voice, turning in time to see Danny himself lean against the locker beside his. “H-ey, Danny,” he greeted nervously.

“You know, this is the second time this week you’ve compared me to a god.”

“Consistency is important?”

Danny laughed at this, dimples proudly on display as he grinned big and bright. “That it is,” he agreed, fiddling with the strap of his backpack. He glanced behind Stiles, then to his side, before looking him in the eye. “Would you mind if I walked you to class?”

“Uh…” Glancing back at Scott, Stiles was surprised the boy had already split, and was halfway down the hall. “Yeah, sure,” he consented. “Go ahead.” Shoving the last of this things in his bag, the younger boy lugged the straps over his shoulders and tugged on them until they were tight against his arms. “Let’s go.”

The hand that came up to his, wrapping around it, lacing their fingers, was neither expected nor unwanted. Stiles allowed it to lead him toward his first class, grinning like an idiot. “So are we, uh…” He cleared his throat. “Are we _out_ now?”

“You kissed me at Lydia’s party,” Danny whispered, lips nearly brushing Stiles’ ear as he leaned over for a bit of privacy. “Everyone knows we’re dating.”

Before long they arrived at Stiles’ first class, and Danny was leaning forward to kiss him. It was chaste, and sweet, and Stiles’ hands came up as it on instinct to brush against the older boy’s face. His cheeks; his jaw; the soft skin beneath his eyes. As Danny pulled away, smiling sweetly, Stiles noticed for the first time the bags that were nearly invisible beneath his eyes. He glanced down at his thumb, unease budding in his stomach as he rubbed it into his pointer finger. It was somewhat slick, the digits sliding easily against one another and turning a darker shade of tan.

Concealer.

…

Stiles stared at his phone beneath his desk for a long time, glancing occasionally at the clock and Mr. Harris, before he finally typed out the message.

_To: Gloria_

_Do you know anything about Nocnitsas?_

“Phones away,” Mr. Harris snapped, suddenly there and snatching Stiles’ phone out of his hand before making his way to the front of the class and dropping it in the box on his desk.

Stiles watched the entire thing with wide, fearful eyes. What if he got a reply? What if he _didn’t_ get a reply? What is Danny had three days to live? What if he _didn’t_ have three days to live?

With his phone safely out of his hands, Stiles’ ability to worry was multiplied tenfold. What if his dad called? What if the hospital called? What if Melissa called trying to get a hold of Scott but couldn’t because Scott’s phone was dead and Harris had taken away Stiles’?

Barely five minutes into class, the boy was already counting the seconds as they passed, leg jumping a mile a minute and hoodie string firmly in his mouth. It wasn’t until Harris started talking about greasy atoms that he started paying attention, though that lasted for all of thirty seconds before he gave up on concentrating and worst case scenarios once again began to parade around the insides of his brain. His mind. The insides of his eyes, ready with a fresh image every time he blinked.

His dad having a heart attack.

Melissa getting hit by a truck.

The old lady next door caught smuggling drugs.

Their house was blown up.

Scenario after scenario presented itself, and when the bell finally rang he couldn’t have been more relieved. Imagining the grim demise of his only family member had passed the time in ways many other things just couldn’t. Granted, he’d also detailed the funeral and the legal proceedings and the chats with the lawyer about who would get the house – Stiles or his great-aunt Esther, who had actually just married into the family five years prior before great-uncle Harold kicked the bucket. On one hand, biological family and direct descendent. On the other, Stiles was fifteen. Hardly the age to be taking care of a house.

By the time Stiles finally got around to checking his messages halfway to his next class, he didn’t even have it in him to react.

_From: Gloria_

_What’s a Nocnitsa?_

…

Knocking on the front door three times, Stiles waited patiently for Laura to pull open the door. When she did, he immediately opened with, “How do you kill a Nocnitsa?”

Much to his surprise, she slammed the door in his face.

He blinked. “What was that for?”

There was no answer.

…

After pulling on a jersey and running out onto the field, Scott scanned the bleachers for a familiar face. Around him, a small crowd of boys mulled about trying to look busy. Jackson was already on the field, doing stretches. But just as he spotted Allison in the crowd, someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“Where’s Stiles?” Danny asked when Scott turned to face him, looking around curiously. “You two are usually together. Is he still in the locker room?”

Shaking his head no, Scott tried not to feel too intimidated by the taller boy before him. “Uh – he had something to do. Lacrosse is more my thing than his.”

Danny frowned. “Really?”

Slowly, the younger boy grinned. “You wanted to show off, didn’t you?”

With a shake of his head, the other teen turned to look around the field. “I just assumed he would be here. That’s all.”

“Alright everyone!” Finstock shouted from beside the bleachers. “Huddle up!”

...

Laura eventually deigned to open the door for Stiles, staring up at him as he’d been on her porch for all of a second instead of pounding his hands raw for her attention over the past half hour. “Did you need something?” she asked, entirely nonchalant.

Stiles stepped around her into the living room before she could stop him.

The woman rolled her eyes. “We are not going to kill the Nocnitsa bothering your boyfriend. In case you didn’t realize, they need to eat, too.”

“Yeah, well, this one fed from the wrong person.”

Laura’s expression darkened as her claws extended at her sides. “I’m not helping you kill something just because it feeds on your boyfriend’s sleep cycle.”

“Okay, then, I’m not going to kill it – how do I push it in someone else’s direction?”

“What?” she asked. “So someone else can be stuck with it?”

“Uh, yeah!”

“You’re such a _dick_!” she screamed, face going red as her voice squeaked.

“Why the hell are you getting so worked up about this?” Stiles shrieked in reply, incredulous. “It’s not like it’s a huge deal!”

Instead of answering, the woman took a deep breath, closed her eyes… and left. As Laura stormed out of the room, Stiles’ eyes landed on a figure lurking in the kitchen. Tall. Leather jacket. Douchey hair.

Derek.

Watching carefully as the woman retreated up the stairs, Stiles – as quietly as he could – carefully maneuvered around the squeakier floorboards until he was in the dining room.

The older man was cooking, paying him no mind as he violently cubed a chicken breast.

And as he stood there, staring at the man’s biceps as they moved with the knife, Stiles felt lost for a long moment. It was only when the hand stilled and Derek looked up to meet his eyes that the boy turned and made his way to the front door. He didn’t see the man’s curious expression, or the way his body went tense from the attention. All his focus was on his pounding heart, the sound of it consuming everything he could hear; the beating of a possessed drum.

...

“ _You should have been there,_ ” Scott insisted.

Stiles sighed. “Dude, you had it in hand.”

“ _It doesn’t matter if I had it in hand. You should have been there._ ”

“And what?” the younger boy asked, closing his laptop before stepping over to collapse against his bed. He groaned as he relaxed, grunting lowly as he maneuvered around the mattress to find a comfortable position. “Cheer you on with Allison? Hang out with Lydia? Wave around a stick and look like an idiot? No thanks.”

“ _And what about Danny?_ ”

“What about Danny?”

“ _He wanted you there to support him, stupid. He was really hoping you were going to be there._ ”

“If he wanted me there he would have told me.”

“ _No, he wouldn’t have,_ ” Scott scolded him. There was a bit of static, like he was adjusting his phone. “ _You gave me executive decision. I’m using it. Call him and apologize for not being there._ ”

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, let me get this straight. You want me to call up my boyfriend and apologize for something I very literally did not do?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“That’s a very stupid plan,” he accused bluntly. “If I apologize for this, I’ll have to apologize for everything or I’ll look like a jerk in comparison. To myself.”

“ _So what?_ ” Scott snapped. “ _You’re going to disappoint him prematurely so he’s not disappointed by shitty behavior in the future?_ ”

“It’s called ‘raising false hopes,’ thank you very much. I’m not going to give him some false image of me that’s going to fall away in a few weeks anyway.”

“ _So you’re not going to support him in endeavors or even, I don’t know, cheer halfheartedly for his wellbeing from fifty feet away as thirty kids who may or may not be experimenting with steroids launch their bodies at him with the intent to **take him down**?_ ”

“He’s a senior,” Stiles pointed out.

“ _He’s not invincible,_ ” Scott retorted.

“He can handle himself.”

“ _He’s in high school, Stiles_.” The older boy’s tone had grown weary; already he was tiring of the argument. “ _At most, Danny is two years older than us. He’s not perfect, and he would like some support from his boyfriend. Now, come on. I know you’re capable of that. You’ve been to every one of my Tetris tournaments._ ”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Okay, that’s not fair. You and I have been best friends forever.”

“ _And Danny’s your boyfriend_.” Silence followed this observation. “ _Don’t you think you owe him a similar courtesy? Where did you disappear to, anyway?_ ”

“I had plans.”

“ _You never have plans._ ”

“Yeah, well, today I did.” Reaching up with his free hand, Stiles covered his face with his fingers before dragging the digits almost viciously against his eyes. “Look, it’s been a long day, okay? You’re not the only person I’ve fought with today.”

“ _Fought with? What are you talking about?_ ”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it. Take it up with your Alpha if you’re so curious.” Pulling his phone away from his face, the boy groaned as he realized it was barely seven. “Look, I know it’s early, but I want to make something to eat and crash. I’ll talk to you about Danny later, okay?”

Downstairs, there was a steady knocking at the door.

“ _What was that?_ ”

“It was the door. I’ll just- I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Stiles suggested, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and sliding to the floor. “You can chew me out then.”

“ _You need to call him, Stiles._ ”

“Good-bye,” the boy insisted instead of replying.

“ _Bye_ ,” Scott replied bitterly.

As he hung up, Stiles slowly moved to his feet before dragging his sorry ass out of his room and down the stairs. His footsteps seemed unusually hollow-sounding as he pounded toward the front door, shouting, “Coming, coming,” to announce his presence. Untucking what parts of his shirt had slid into his pants, the young teen approached the door with a broken yawn and a grimace. By the time he threw open the door he’d ran uneasy hands through his hair and looked a proper mess.

“He da- duh… Derek.”

“Stiles.”

For a long moment, the site was a tableau. Inside, Stiles was frozen by shock, one foot still poised to settle on the floor and one hand pushing the three months of grow-out his hair had managed to accrue over the course of the school year. Outside, Derek was a picture of military stillness. (Or maybe just the supernatural kind.) His eyes were trained on the younger boy; hands fixed firmly in his pockets; shoulders so loose the boy dared call them _relaxed_.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Like most of Stiles’ words, these were out before he knew what he was saying. Like a retainer spit out mid-sentence in a nice restaurant, it flew into the world without any trace of apology or decorum.

Thankfully, Derek already seemed used to Stiles’ outbursts. Digging something out of his pocket, he offered a clenched hand palm-down before the boy.

“Uh-”

“Take it.”

“Take it?” Stiles made a face. “I wasn’t aware we were on speaking terms, let alone on the level of gift-giving. Did I miss something?”

Derek rolled his eyes so thoroughly and so disrespectfully that Stiles half-expected him to shrink three inches and sprout a forest of oozing pimples across his forehead. Obviously, this did not happen. “Just take the knife.”

“Knife?”

“Yes,” Derek confirmed, grabbing Stiles’ wrist and pulling it forward.

The boy jumped at the sensation of the older man’s hand on his, dragging across the skin of his palm. Fingers dragged along his own as Derek guided the appendage out flat. Electricity raced up his arm at the contact, jumping up and down his torso and twingeing in his legs until every nerve seemed to be on high alert at once. It was over all too soon, leaving only the aftereffect of a strange sort of buzzing in everything as a small, sheathed knife was dropped in Stiles’ hand.

“It’s iron,” the man informed him. “It’s one of the only things that can kill a Nocnitsa.”

“Iron,” he repeated quietly, thoughts going immediately to the many Supernatural marathons he’d had over the years. _Ghosts can’t touch iron, right? Or is it a supernatural-wide sort of thing going? It’s not just a myth?_ “Are you serious?”

This time, Derek didn’t roll his eyes. Instead he huffed in such a way that screamed, _You shouldn’t be talking. We shouldn’t be talking. I need to go write shitty poetry and wear turtlenecks._ (At least, that’s what it seemed like to Stiles.) “If you aren’t satisfied with this, go ask someone else.”

“No, that’s not it!” Stiles rushed to say, words spilling out around a shocked expression. “I just – you’re kind of the last person I expected to help me. Like, ever.”

“You’re pack.” And despite all the impressions Stiles was getting of the man, he was suddenly short. Derek was so earnest; so open with this admission that…

… he just couldn’t take him seriously.

The boy snorted. “Haha. Yeah. Right.” Shaking his head amusedly, the boy laughed.

Derek scowled, watching Stiles carefully before insisting, “It’s true.”

“Oh yeah?” the teen teased. “If that’s the case, why won’t Laura help me?”

“Because you aren’t pack.”

Stiles’ grin grew to shit eating proportions as his eyes narrowed and his hands settled on his hips. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re not making any sense.”

“You’re not…” Derek trailed off, seemingly searching for words. “You were right.”

Again, the scene froze. Derek, with his leather jacket and scowl. Stiles, with his T-shirt and incredulous expression. A chilly breeze slipped between them, but neither of them paid it any mind. The rain from the night before had frozen over the ground, and even the porch, and Derek kicked one such mound of ice – almost as if he were nervous.

It was something Stiles didn’t want to bring himself to admit; that Derek might have _feelings_. That Derek might have _reasons_ for things.

That Derek might be _nervous_.

That was just a whole can of worms he didn’t want to open.

“Huh?” Stiles hands dropped from his waist as he stared at the older man, mouth wide open as goosebumps erupted over his arms from the breeze.

“The other day. In the car,” Derek clarified quietly before clearing his throat and continuing in a louder voice. “You were right about what you said about me. That without Laura I’d be lost. And I… I didn’t like that, but...”

“But?”

Derek sighed. “You’re pack. To me, at least. I don’t know about Laura.”

“Oh…” Surprised, the boy took a deep, mulling breath before letting it out slowly through his nose. “That’s… Thanks, I guess.”

Nodding solidly, the man made to leave, only to stop in his tracks as he came to his car, hand on the door. He turned back, expression curious; a first, if there was one. “Why are you going so far for him?”

Stiles shrugged. “I care about him. He’s my boyfriend.”

“That’s a lie,” the werewolf accused, eyes flashing a sudden, brilliant gold.

The teen’s expression turned incredulous. “You’re kidding, right?”

“He’s your boyfriend, but you sure as hell don’t care about him,” Derek observed quietly. “My guess, he’s the first person who asked.”

Something in Stiles’ stomach twisted at this. It was a dull, empty sort of ache. “He’s not.”

“You’re lying again,” the man pointed out. “I can tell by your heartbeat.”

“You’re listening to my heart?”

“Try again.”

The twisting in Stiles’ belly came to a head, morphing into a sharp throbbing sensation that made him want to bend over and start hurling. “I want to.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “You want to what?”

“I want to care about him,” he admits quietly, eyes turning to the knife in his hands. “You’re right; I’m only with him because he’s the first person who’s asked. But maybe some day that’ll change.” Breathing his slowly, he let it out in a small laugh. “Danny’s smart. He’s nice. He’s good at everything he does.

“Everyone likes Danny. They like him because he’s an incredible guy, and some day he’ll be an incredible man. Do you know how remarkable it is that he likes me? It’s _crazy_ – I don’t even know _why_. He’s so far above me that I can’t even comprehend why he bothers. So yeah – I want to like him. I want to like him a _lot_.

“I want to spend time with him and go out on dates and make out in my Jeep. And maybe, one day, if I’m lucky enough, I’ll fall in love with him.” He says this slowly, testing the words on his tongue as though they might run away. “And the fact of the matter is that I can’t do that if he’s half-passed-out all the time from being fed on by a Nocnitsa. How do I know if I like him when I’m only talking to half a person?”

Derek glanced at the knife in Stiles’ hand, then into the boy’s eyes. “Let’s hope he’s worth it,” he said before yanking his door open and stepping inside the car.

As the man drove off, pale hands gripped the sheath of the blade tightly. “You and me both,” the boy whispered to the empty air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Bonus: ["Technically" Backstories](http://besieged-infection.tumblr.com/post/97795749844).


	12. Nocnitsa

Winter and the months to follow passed quickly in a haze of unrestful sleep and dozing in Chemistry. Before Stiles could make heads or tails of his life in the wake of the Quite-Possibly-Nocnitsa, or figure out which of the six Ericas in the county of Beacon Hills happened to be the new Beta – because Laura was just _not telling_ – he arrived at school to a small shower of confetti and a few shouts of, “Happy Birthday!” and one, “At least smile, ungrateful idiot.”

As far as Stiles was concerned, Jackson could go fuck himself. With a caltrop.

Stiles looked sleepily from smiling party to slightly-awkward-looking party. Scott was there with a small, poorly wrapped present, and Allison was holding a cupcake. Lydia and Jackson stood behind Danny, who was carrying a small, plain brown sack. The kind people wrapped around bottles of alcohol in public. Finally, his eyes settled back on Allison, who looked far too pleased with herself.

 _You_ , he accused mentally. _You cut the confetti_.

“This is why you didn’t need a ride this morning, isn’t it?” he asked Scott bitterly, swatting at where the confetti had settled on his wet clothes. A distressingly small portion of them fell to the floor in a sprinkle of flamboyant raindrops. Stiles did not envy the janitor. “You were planning to turn me into a disco ball?”

“A very cute disco ball,” Allison added innocently.

 _Yup_ , Stiles affirmed to himself with a sigh. _It was you_. Then, much to his horror, they began to sing.

“Happy birthday to you!” they began in unison, horribly out of tune and fighting for which key would, in fact, be the key to be used in the end. “Happy birthday to you!” they continued. Danny immediately gave way to Allison, switching to her key with a grimace. “Happy birthday,” they sang, making it all the more obvious that Scott wasn’t fighting for a key, but was legitimately tone-deaf, “dear-”

“Stiles!”

“Stiles.”

“Geni-im!” Scott sang, earning confused looks from everyone but the birthday boy himself. “What?” he asked, looking from Allison, then to Danny, and finally to Stiles. “It fits better,” he announced, as if it were obvious, before continuing all on his tone-deaf lonesome, “Happy birthday to you!”

Allison turned to Stiles with a tortured expression and a bitingly sincere, “I am so sorry.”

Stiles could only be glad that Jackson considered himself above name teasing. “Presents,” he demanded, holding out his arms and wiggling his fingers. “I sat through your song, now gimme.”

“That song was for you,” Scott complained weakly.

“Yes, and you’re tone-deaf. Gimme.”

Stiles watched on, nearly nauseated by the display as Allison leaned over to kiss Scott’s cheek, whispering sweetly, “I think you were great.”

That was all it took for a grin to spread across Scott’s face like a rash. And as he handed over the poorly wrapped package his smile grew to shit-eating proportions. “You’re going to love it,” he gloated.

“We’ll see,” the younger boy taunted in reply, tearing into the wrapping with single minded concentration. At first his wet fingers could only slide across the surface, unable to get a grip. But after a bit of jostling and cursing he managed to get a nail beneath a dilapidated strip of tape. From there the paper fell away easily. Within seconds the present was revealed, framed appropriately by the decorative balloons printed across the wrapping.

“Sims 3,” Stiles read, amused, before he slid the case aside to reveal the present behind it. “Supernatural Creatures Extension?”

Almost as if scripted, both Stiles and Scott broke into giggles.

“This is a _bit_ too much irony for you, dude.”

“It was Allison’s idea,” Scott informed him sheepishly. “The present’s from both of us.”

Mentally, Stiles forgave her for the confetti. “I thought as much.”

“As much as I’m enjoying everyone’s little powwow,” Lydia interjected quickly, gaining the group’s attention for the first time since their congregation. The girl’s heels clicked against the linoleum floor, the steady and confident _tap, tap, tap_ her only positive addition to the conversation. Her lips curled into a crocodile smile as she gracefully flipped her hair and continued, “could we hurry things up? Bell rings in five minutes.”

“Yeah, sure,” Scott replies quickly, glancing from Stiles, to Allison, and finally to Danny with a thinned smile. “Your turn.”

“You know what? You guys go on ahead,” Danny told the group, turning to look everyone in the eye. If he’d been shaken by Lydia’s demand, he didn’t show it. “My present’s a bit personal.”

“Personal?” Stiles asked as the other scattered, waving as they walked off. “What do you mean, ‘personal?’”

Danny grinned, slipping his fingers between Stiles’, the present remaining aloft in his free hand. “Come on,” he urged, pulling the younger boy in the general direction of the Cafeteria.

Stiles let himself be pulled along for a while, glancing away from his boyfriend only occasionally to take in the crowds of teenagers lining the sides of the halls. “Where are we going?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. So when it came, he nearly froze in his tracks in his surprise rather than shock.

“The basement,” the older boy told him, clutching the bag closer to his chest. “For a bit of privacy.”

As they made their way along with the steadily appearing sea of teenagers, the pair eventually split off from the crowd to jog down an adjacent hallway. Recalling their last trip into the very bowels of the school, Stiles felt a shiver race up and down his spine. And as the heavy metal door was wrenched open and they descended, he found himself grinning at the shifting of excitement just beneath his skin. As he and Danny made their way down the stairs and into the boiler room, Stiles carefully watched the older boy’s back and savored the little jump in his stomach. It wasn’t the twisting, light, _wonderful_ sensation that he got whenever he looked at Derek, but it was something.

And just like that, his heart fell into his stomach and he just felt _sick_.

He realized, very suddenly and very disparagingly, that whatever he had going on with Danny wasn’t going to work out. That no matter how hard he tried to keep things going between them, the truth would come out.

They just… weren’t.

Weren’t suited.

Weren’t meshing.

Weren’t mutually attracted.

Weren’t alike.

Weren’t meant to be _together_. Friends, maybe. Together? No.

“You coming?”

Stiles glanced up to realize he’d stopped mid-step halfway down the stairs, hand still clasped with Danny’s. And Danny’s hand was warm. Danny’s hand was warm because he was a person, and that’s what people did – they radiated heat and lived and _felt_.

And for what felt like the hundredth time in the past year, Stiles felt like a complete and utter _asshole_.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” he replied quietly, allowing himself to be led into the basement. The hollow sounds of their footsteps came to haunt him even as they faded into the background, slowing and echoing around them like the horrible, offbeat ticking of a dying clock. It was only when they had passed through the second set of doors and taken up residence of the hallway that Stiles spoke again. Danny’s present lay in his hands, and as he peered into the bag to observe the string of condoms and small bottle of lubricant, his voice cracked. “If you had to choose between being miserable and being happy for a little while longer, what would you choose?”

Danny laughed. “Where does this come from?”

“Just something that’s been bugging me.”

The older boy shrugged, turned away, then looks Stiles straight in the eye. “Happy. Is that even a question?”

“But what if bad things would happen if you waited too long?”

“Are bad things going to happen anyway?”

“Yeah.”

Expression a mask of confusion, Danny shook his head. “Look, it’s ultimately up to you, so I’m not going to pressure you. But if you can be happy a bit longer, you might want to take what you can get.”

“And if it makes things worse?”

“Then it makes things worse. A bit part of life is reaping what you sow. And if you can’t reap it, well…” His tongue flicked out to lick his lips, and for a short second he looked off toward the thick metal door that would lead to the staircase up from the basement. There was a flash of conflict across his face; so fast Stiles nearly didn’t see it. But then he was turning his eyes back on Stiles and smiling his dimpled smile. “Then you shouldn’t have sown it to begin with.”

Turning his gaze back to the string of condoms, Stiles nodded placidly.

“So,” Danny muttered, pressing his nose against the swell of the younger boy’s cheek. “My parents are out of town this weekend. Get everything you need, then come over. Bring a change of clothes.”

…

The bustle of the cafeteria was beginning to be too easy for Scott to ignore as he slid into the seat opposite Allison. Settling his food on the table, he grinned goofily at her. She smiled right back, dimples on display and eyes twinkling. “Hey, Allison,” he said, as if saying the name itself was cause for celebration.

Which, to him, it really was.

“Hey Scott,” she replied just as eagerly, voice light and airy.

“So, I was, uh…” He trailed off, eyes shooting towards Stiles where he was still in line with Danny. “I was thinking that, you know, with Danny and Stiles taking their relationship a bit further we could, uh…”

Allison giggled. “You really want to talk about sex in the middle of the cafeteria?”

“Sex?” Scott gasped. His jaw nearly fell open at the suggestion. “What? I- no. I mean-”

“It’s not that embarrassing,” she teased, leaning back to rest her hands on her seat with a grin. “See? Sex. Sex. Sex. Pretty sure there’s no bolt of lighting hiding in the rafters waiting to shoot me down.” She glanced up, as if looking for some spontaneous cloud to form above her head.

The boy shook his head. “That’s not what I was going to ask,” he squeaked, biting his lip as he hunched in against himself. When Allison finally looked back at him, he continued. “I was just… I was hoping, maybe, we could become official. And I could meet your parents.”

Her expression darkened. “That’s… That can’t happen.”

“What?”

“Scott-”

“Why can’t I meet them? We’ve been running around behind their backs for months. I think it’s already safe to say we aren’t going to be a two-week train wreck.”

“I may be the matriarch, but my parents are still my parents. I can’t just go up to them and say I’m dating…” She paused, glancing around them curiously for wandering eyes. “... a _werewolf_. Their opinions aside, there’d be a revolt within the family.”

“But what about us?” he asked, hands coming forward in what he hoped was a placating gesture. “Are we seriously going to let that stop us from going out? We’re teenagers. We’re not little kids any more. We can make our own decisions. Like…” He trailed off, clearing his throat before continuing in the same dry, quiet tone to avoid attention. “You’re the matriarch of your family. You’ve been making decisions for ages. And… I’ve had a job for about a year, now. I think it’s safe to say we’re a bit more mature than most kids here.”

“Scott, just the fact that you just said that proves that we’re not,” Allison retorted sharply. “You’re not meeting my parents in this capacity and that’s final.”

Scott pursed his lips, fighting a wave of nausea and what felt strangely similar to _guilt_ before grabbing his tray and his bag before rising from the table. “I guess I should find somewhere else to sit, then,” he muttered, stepping over the seat.

“Wait-”

“I get it, Allison,” he hissed, cutting her off. “We’re never going to be together. I get it.” Not feeling much like staying, Scott dumped his untouched food in the bins, depositing his tray before leaving. The world suddenly felt so small; constricting and hard to breathe. He didn’t feel much like eating any more. He walked blindly down the halls for a while, passing classrooms filled with students on the other lunch schedule and teachers carrying textbooks and papers. Eventually, he wandered to his locker. There he collapsed against it with a half sob and a whine.

“Are you alright?”

Scott glanced over, surprised to find Erica Reyes at his side. “You’re allowed out, now?” he asked slowly, making a physical effort to keep any traces of condescension out of his voice.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been at school for about a week, now. Laura thinks I’ve been inside too long.”

“Oh.”

“What’s wrong? You look…” She trailed off, glancing up into his eyes before adjusting her backpack against where it pulled at her sweater. Scott thought it might have been the first time he’d seen her in something that wasn’t six sizes too big. “When you left the gym you looked stressed.”

He was quiet for a while, throat closing up as he rest his forehead against his locker.

“You can tell me, you know,” she told him, voice soft. “We’re pack, now. Practically family. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to.”

“As if you didn’t hear,” the boy drawled quietly.

“I don’t make a habit of listening in on people’s conversations,” Erica informed him earnestly. “Now, mind sharing?”

Scott dragged himself away from the locker with a grimace. “Allison and I aren’t…”

“You broke up?”

He shook his head. “We were never dating.”

“Oh.” The shock evident in her voice was almost soothing. “Sounds like it hurts.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does,” he admitted quietly. Propping open the door of his locker, he used it as a shield for the world at large; hiding behind the sheet of metal like it could stop the tears that budded at his eyes before leaving tracks down the sides of his face.

They were quiet for a little while longer before Erica stepped around to the other side of the boy to see him, took in his tears, and tugged on his sleeve with a smile. “Hey, you want to get drunk tonight?”

“Drunk?” Scott asked, glancing down at her. “Why would I want to get drunk?”

“I don’t know. You’re a sad, depressed teenager?”

“That aside,” the boy argued, taking a long, shaky breath before he continued. “How would we get drunk? We’re underage. Unless you know someone willing to buy alcohol for minors, we’re out of luck.”

“My parents are out of town and they don’t keep stock of their liquor cabinet.”

The silence that followed was neither companionable nor stagnant. As Scott turned to her with wide, appreciative eyes and and a small grin, the girl preened beneath the attention. “Your place, then,” he agreed. “Should I get your address or-”

“I’ll text you,” she suggested instead, whipping out a small, rather battered cell phone.

For the first time in a while, Scott was glad he wasn’t the only one with a hand-me-down flip phone. After they exchanged numbers and she waltzed away, Stiles appeared out of nowhere with a panicked expression and a squeal of tennis shoes.

“I’m going to lose my virginity tonight,” he announced quietly. “Like, premeditated and all that. I have arrived at premeditated sex. I am going to have sex _tonight_.”

“Congrats, man,” Scott told him earnestly, subtly wiping away the last of the moisture from his cheeks. “I’m happy for you.”

Stiles face twisted into annoyance as he stared at his friend. “Dude, do you not realize I am freaking out? I have been trying to get in his bedroom – physically, mind you, just to cuddle or something – for about four months now because he has a _Nocnitsa_ after him and now, if I’m _lucky_ , I get to spend my first ever morning after _killing demons_.” The last of this was hissed through his teeth. “I don’t want to spend my first morning after killing demons.”

“Most people don’t.”

“I hate my life,” the boy whined, throwing his hands over his face with a groan of defeat. “Please tell me at least you and Allison don’t go all Buffy post-coitus. There has to be hope.”

“We don’t.”

Stiles waited with bated breath for a long moment before muttering a disappointed, “That’s all you’re going to give me, isn’t it? I can’t even live vicariously through you? Dick move.”

Scott frowned. “Stiles, we’re not dating.”

“Sure you aren’t,” the boy drawled. “So for the past four months you’ve been spending every moment with her almost holding hands and cooing at each other because you’re _friends_. Right.”

“I’m not joking,” the older boy told him, surprising even himself at how calm he came across. “We talked about it today, and it’s just…” He took a second to breathe, staring into the depths of his locker like it could swallow his pain. “It’s not going to happen.”

Stiles could only blink at him before he managed, “You really don’t want to talk about this, do you?”

“No, I really don’t.”

“Okay, then.”

...

After school, Scott hopped into the car with Stiles for the first time in a long while after Coach cancelled Lacrosse practice. “Mind sharing with the class where we’re going?” he asked as he shot out of the preserve and came face-to-face with the farmland just outside Beacon Hills.

“Long story.”

“That’s all I’m getting?”

“Pretty much.”

“... Okay.”

It was a long time before either of them spoke again, the radio blaring the top forty at the lowest volume Scott could turn it without earning a grimace.

Then, finally, Stiles turned to meet his eyes for a moment to ask, “Mind sharing with the class why were you were talking with Reyes on your lunch break?”

“Reyes?”

“Yeah. You know, Erica Reyes. Blonde hair, has seizures, in our… Freshman...” Stiles trailed off suddenly, eyes dropping stare into space, then shooting back up to Scott, wide and shocked. “Erica, as in Erica Reyes? She’s the new beta?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Like hell it’s complicated. Why would Laura go after a high school student? Weren’t you enough of an issue?”

“It wasn’t Laura’s choice; Derek picked her.”

Stiles scoffed. “Derek,” he repeated, tonguing at the inside of his teeth before popping it against his lip, staring into the distance for a short moment before turning his eyes to the older boy. “We’re talking about the same guy, right? Derek _Hale_? Doesn’t talk to _anyone_? Six feet tall? Leather jacket? Asshole _conveniently_ located beneath his nose? The guy who called us _jailbait minions_?”

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

“Uh, no. No I am not. The guy’s a jerk, okay? And that’s putting it nicely.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“Where am I… He is _up_ to something, I know it, okay?” Stiles insisted, throwing his arm up to motion in the general “behind” direction. “He’s exactly the kind of guy who would be up to something. With the skulking and the hanging around High Schools and the whole… face thing.”

Scott grinned, eyebrow hiking up in amusement. “Are you sure you’re not just angry he bruised your forehead?”

“That was four months ago. I’m so over that, okay?” Turning off to the side of the road, Stiles pulled them into park beside the now much taller field of wheat, tugged the keys out of the ignition, and breathed deep.

The older boy shrugged. “Okay, whatever you say. Now, why are we here?”

Scanning the horizon, the human narrowed his eyes against light bouncing off the car hood. “Because there’s a girl who shows up here at noon – a ghost, sort of.”

“Again, why are we here?”

“Because, Scott, you asked to come along to where I was driving, and for the last three months I’ve been coming here and trying to meet this girl because she might know what’s happening to Danny.”

“But it’s three in the afternoon.”

“Shh,” Stiles scolded, stepping forward to scan the area. “There’s a chance she can show up at other times.”

“Why don’t you just come by on a Saturday or something?”

Stiles shrugged, leaning over the wheel of the car to scan the edges of the wheat field. “She didn’t show.”

“Then how do you know if she’s even here any more?”

“I don’t.”

Scott stared at Stiles for a long moment before he settled back into his seat. He threw it into a recline, settling his gaze on the roof of the Jeep. “How long do you usually sit here?”

The boy shrugged. “Hour. Maybe two. Depends.”

“On?”

Staring pointedly at the overcast sky, Stiles closed his eyes and hissed out a breath just as the first drops hit the windshield. “The weather.”

“That has been really weird, lately.”

“You’re telling me.”

Above them came a great crack of thunder before the sky opened up and rain came crashing down.

Stiles made a noise of bitter acceptance as he leaned back in his seat. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered. “It rained this morning. Why shouldn’t it rain this afternoon, too?”

Scott looked at him curiously, eyes narrowed. “Why do you leave if it rains.”

“Because, Scotty boy,” the younger boy drawled sweetly. “I am not standing around answering the questions of a dead girl for half an hour in the pouring rain. I’ll get sick or something. Not worth it.”

“Oh.” A few minutes later, Scott glanced around the car, then fidgeted with the door handle. “Why aren’t we leaving? It’s raining.”

Stiles shrugged. “Putting off the inevitable, mostly.”

“The inevitable?”

“Yeah. I’m losing my virginity tonight.”

The older boy made a hum of agreement, nodding his head and resettling into the curve of the car seat. “Is that a problem?”

“Did you not hear me? I am losing my virginity tonight,” Stiles hissed condescendingly, turning his eyes away from where they had been glued on the far-off fence to stare incredulously at his friend. “That is so far from a problem I’m having issues thinking it’s actually going to happen.”

“So… what?” Scott asked. “You’re nervous?”

“Nervous? Yeah. That is most definitely a word for it.”

A short silence passed, during which Stiles turned back to stare at the fence and Scott shifted to do the same.

When the rain began to ease more onto the side of a light drizzle, the older boy breathed out a slow, calming breath before asking, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really, no.”

“Stiles.”

“What would I talk about?” he asked bitterly. “That I’m scared I’ll suck? That I’ll mess something up so bad someone gets injured?”

“It’ll be fine. Danny wouldn’t let you suck, if that’s what you’re worried about. He seems like the kind of guy who would be able to talk you through it.”

“You're absolutely right about that, Scotty-boy.”

“So if that isn’t the problem what is?”

“If you don’t mind, I really don’t want to talk about this again.”

“‘Again?’” Scott gasped incredulously. “What do you mean, ‘again?’”

“I’ve already covered this with someone else.”

“Who?”

Stiles hesitated a long while before guiltily answering, “Derek.”

Scott made a face. “Derek? Why did you talk to Derek?” He sounded betrayed, voice going high and squeaky at the end. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “You hate Derek.”

“Hate is a strong word, man,” the younger boy pointed out.

“But you really, really, really don’t like him?”

Shaking his head with a small, nearly imperceptible grin, Stiles removed his arms from the steering wheel and leaned back in his seat. “As much as I love how your brief foray into society has improved your pop culture reference game, now is just not the time.” He paused, pursing his lips and licking at his teeth before continuing. “As for Derek, let’s just say that I begrudgingly respect him even with the firm knowledge that he could totally kill someone with the tiniest push. And – just being honest here – that person would totally be me.”

“Then why did you tell him?” Scott asked. His words were soft; almost like they had barely managed to slip through his throat. “Why did you tell him and not me?”

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know, man.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“I…” The boy trailed off, staring into space for a while before he attempted nonchalance. “You would totally judge me, you know?”

“Stiles, when have I ever judged you?”

“You would judge me for this,” the boy told him stubbornly. “You would definitely judge me for this.”

…

It hadn't been a long time since Scott rode his bike. Even though it had barely been half a day the handlebars felt foreign. The seat, brand new. And with each turn he made – one more set of directions on the sheet of paper down – it felt almost like he was going to tip over. Like he had already tipped over and it was going to happen again any second. But before too long he arrived at Erica’s house without tipping over once, and as the girl waved to him from the front porch he heaved a relieved sigh.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” she greeted warmly as he ducked beneath the cover of the front overhang.

Pushing the sopping hood of his jacket back, he glanced back out at the rain. “This just isn’t letting up, is it?”

“News said we’re in flood warning,” she told him quietly. “Now come in – I have some sweats that might fit you.”

…

When Stiles arrived at the apartment Danny lived in, he spent a good ten minutes outside the door, pacing back and forth. Every few minutes he would pause and prepare to knock, only to drop his hand and continue his rounds. Then, forty minutes into this, he grit his teeth and stepped up to the door, rapping his knuckles against the wood six times before inhaling and holding his breath.

After a short moment of silence the door was eased open in a manner so slow it had to be intentional. “I was wondering when you would knock,” Danny informed him quietly. “Granted, you gave me a bit more time to clean my room, so I’m not really complaining.”

“If you knew I was here then why didn’t you just open the door?” Stiles squeaked incredulously.

The older boy made a noise like the answer was obvious. “Well, you weren’t ready yet, were you?”

“I…” Biting his lip against what would have been a lie, Stiles balled his hands up right before letting them hang loose at his sides. “Yeah, I guess I wasn’t.”

Danny laughed, then took a step to the side to welcome the boy in. “Get in here, then.”

“Right.” Stepping over the threshold, Stiles joined his boyfriend in the foyer before the older boy closed the door, leaving them in the darkened living room.

“I’ve already douched,” Danny tells him quickly, “so you don’t have to worry about that.”

“You, uh… You’ve what now?”

…

“So do we want to watch The Fifth Element, Batman Forever, or Star Wars?” Erica asked, juggling a mass of VHS tapes in her arms as she settled on the couch beside Scott.

The boy glanced between them, shrugging. “I don’t really have a preference.”

Laughing lightly, Erica dropped onto the couch. “Okay, then. Star Wars it is.” She jumped up from the couch and dropped them on the floor before popping one in the VCR, grinning like a geek. “I haven’t watched this in so long,” she told him warmly, turning on the TV before hopping back to join him on the couch. She grabbed the bottle of wine from the floor and used the corkscrew to pop it open before filling the glasses on the coffee table half way. “Drink up,” she told him, handing her guest the Lilo and Stitch printed glass and keeping the Pocahontas one for herself.

Scott grabbed it quickly, and took long, thick gulps until the glass was empty. As the title sequence came on, he frowned. “Why are we watching episode four? Shouldn’t we start with the first one or something?”

Erica turned to him with wide, scared eyes.

The boy double-took when he saw her, eyebrows raising in question. “What?”

“Oh my god.”

…

Sitting naked on Danny’s bed, Stiles watched as the older boy closed the door and locked it.

“And extra precaution,” the equally nude boy told him, practically skipping back to the bed. In an instant the older boy was there, knees on the bed and lips on Stiles’, hands pushing him down into a laying position on the mattress.

It was a bit of a shock; feeling so much naked skin at once. But Stiles couldn’t pay it as much attention as he would like, too focussed on other things. He couldn’t help but wonder if his hair was alright, or his breath. Did Danny like his freckles? His eyes? What if he was terrible? He watched, a bit scared, as the boy pulled out a condom wrapper, then handed it to him.

“Go ahead,” he told him. “It’s just like health class.”

…

“This is violating every law of physics I have ever been taught.”

Erica slapped a hand across the boy’s mouth and hissed, “Shh. Just enjoy it.”

…

“Are you sure you don’t want me to do any work?” Stiles asked as Danny above him positioned himself over the younger boy’s groin. “I would gladly take top.”

“Relax, okay? I have more muscle mass. I can go for longer. And I know you’ve been really tired these last few months.”

“I don’t think we’re going to need to worry about lasting.” Eyeing his straining erection, Stiles let out a long, low hiss as it sunk partway into the flex of his boyfriend’s hole.

Danny snickered. “No, I don’t think we are,” he concurred before sinking down slowly.

The younger boy gasped, hands shooting out to grip Danny’s hips like a lifeline, hips jolting forward in an attempt to get further into the wonderful, fluttering, tight heat that was slowly but surely gripping him in every way possible.

Stilling his hips with heavy hands, his boyfriend whined high in his throat. “Don’t move,” he ordered. “I’m not ready for that yet.”

Stiles felt himself nearly on the edge of orgasm as the older boy sunk down further on his dick, near flush against him. So, not wanting to be outdone, he reached forward to grip his boyfriend’s cock with both hands, thumbing beneath the head and stroking the shaft. He watched as the boy shuddered and shook above him.

Danny only managed to rise halfway up onto his knees before Stiles was coming, emptying himself out in the condom and gripping the older boy’s cock like a lifeline. As a sort of apology he striped the older boy’d length for all he was worth, jerking it almost roughly, squeezing at the head and a few fingers dancing around his balls. The older boy nearly collapsed against him, arms straining as he dropped to the mattress and shuddered. Before too long he spurt across Stiles’ chest, shaking and groaning and biting his lip through it all.

The thing they had built up for six months had taken all of three minutes.

…

“Pretty sure we can’t get drunk,” Scott noted with a certain degree of disappointment, staring at the bottom of his fourth glass with a grimace.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Erica blubbered sleepily from the arm of the couch.

…

“I meant what I said back when I was drunk.”

“Wait, what?”

“At Lydia’s party.”

“What about it?”

“It’s been eating at me for a while, you know? We’re two incredibly different people, but I think you’re absolutely amazing. You’re smart, you’re interesting, you could keep a conversation going for hours if you wanted to... “ Turning onto his side, Danny placed his hand on Stiles’ chest and traced a finger along the line of his sternum. “You’re amazing and it’s so hard to believe no one can see it.”

…

“You’re amazing, Scott,” she told him sweetly. “Don’t let anyone – especially an ex girlfriend who couldn’t commit – tell you otherwise.”

“She’s more than that.”

“What?”

“She was my anchor,” he admitted quietly. “It’s only a matter of time before things start happening again. The loss of control. The anger. The night runs.”

“Then get a new anchor.”

Scott frowned. “It’s not that easy.”

“Uh, yeah,” the girl argued. “It is. I mean, come on – I made you my anchor in, like, two days.”

“I’m your-” Choking over his words, the boy’s mouth fell open as he turned to look at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not. All it took was instilling a habit to listen to you. I figured since we go to the same school you would be a near constant presence, and since you’re a werewolf you won’t get sick like the other kids do. And, eventually, when I learn to control it better, I can become my own anchor, like Laura. So I listened for your heart every day at school – to the point where I could pick it out in seconds.”

“You can do that?”

“So can you,” she insisted quietly. “Go on – try it.”

…

“What about you?”

“Huh?”

“Not to put you on the spot or anything – and you don’t have to answer – but how do you feel about this? About me? About… us.”

“Well, I’m with you,” Stiles began quietly. “How can I not be the happiest sonofabitch in the entire world?”

It was only after he said it, when Danny pulled him into his arms and pressed a kiss to his forehead, that Stiles realized his question was sincere.

…

Waking was a slow process for Stiles, as it usually was those days. For a while all he wanted to do was go back to sleep, but he knew it wouldn’t be possible. He was rested, yet he wasn’t. He wasn’t alert.

Then he was elbowed in the face.

Falling to the floor in a scramble of limbs in an attempt to get away from the offending article, Stiles glanced up at the bed and found himself face to face with a great shadow. Before he even knew what he was doing, the boy fumbled over to his things to retrieve the iron knife Derek had loaned him months before. He jumped on the bed, thrusting the knife into the back of the shadow as hard as he could. Beneath his hands it shattered in a cloud of dust.

This left him with a wide-awake boyfriend staring up at him, coated in a layer of dead-demon powder.

“What the hell was that?” Danny squeaked, voice higher and reedier than Stiles had ever heard it. And when the younger boy failed to reply, he practically screeched, “What the hell was that?”

Veins a cocktail of adrenaline and fear, Stiles did the only thing he could think to do.

He snatched up his keys and ran.

Off he went, out into the living room, out onto the stairwell, into the parking lot, and into his car, gunning the engine and driving off without a stitch on him. And with the cold fabric of the seat against his ass and Derek’s knife still clutched tightly in his hand he realized something very, very obvious.

“Shit, I fucked up.”


	13. Truth Will (Not) Out

When Stiles imagined finally confronting Danny about the incident with the Nocnitsa, he didn’t imagine it would be in the middle of the woods at 2AM, and that the talk would begin with, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

But before that could happen, Stiles had to wake up, lost, with no memory of how he got there, in the middle of those very same woods.

Bonus: It was night.

That was all Stiles could make sense of when he woke to the sound of owls and rustling leaves. His arms and legs were heavy, exhaustion weighing them down. His eyes wouldn’t focus, leaving him blinking blearily up at twisting shapes far above him. Cold bit in to each crevice and cranny in his body, and his forehead felt warm and wet. He fumbled around his pockets for a while. He was surprised, and relieved, to find himself in his everyday clothes and not his pajamas.

Deep in one of his pockets was his phone, which he fumbled with for a short moment before pressing at the buttons blindly, trying to get the screen lit. When it didn’t respond he held down the power button. Without seconds he was squinting against the harsh light of the screen, covering his eyes with one hand. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, trying to navigate through the menu. He panicked, eyes lighting upon the flashing red battery in the upper right hand corner.

The boy began mashing buttons, trying to get to the call menu as fast as possible to dial the police. But the device stalled, and instead of going to “911,” it sent him to “Contacts: Alpha Laura.”

And then it was dialling, and figuring it would work just as well, Stiles pressed it to his ear and hoped. “Come on, pick up,” he muttered. There was a single click, and the boy jumped. “Oh, thank god. Look, I’m in the woods. I don’t know where. Could you, like, use your werewolf powers to track me down? I don’t think my battery is going to last long enough to get it traced by the police.”

“ _Stiles?_ ”

Stiles frowned. “Derek?”

“ _You’re in the woods? Do you mean the preserve?_ ”

“Of course I mean the preserve. What other woods are there? Why do you sound so panicked?”

“ _Stay right where you are. Don’t you dare move, you hear me?_ ”

As the line went quiet, Stiles tore his phone away from his ear to find it had died. “Great,” he grumbled to himself. “My fate now lies in the hands of Derek freakin’ Hale. This should go over splendidly.” Stuffing the phone back in his pocket, the boy wrapped his arms around himself and attempted to ignore the chill that had apparently long-since seeped into his bones. “No big deal,” he muttered. “I’ll just sit here, doing nothing. Coach only lost a testicle to exposure because he was naked. I am very much clothed. I should be _fine_.”

For the first few minutes of waiting Stiles rubbed his hands up and down his arms, hissing incoherencies and pacing back and forth. “I’m a damsel in distress. Great,” he complained. “Or the guy version of it. Whatever. Cool.” After a while he took a seat at the base of a tree, crossing his fingers and praying to god that it didn’t rain.

From that moment on, each rustle in the bushes was Derek, rushing to meet him, scowl on his face and an insult at the ready. Each crest of noise in the trees was him breaking through branches, high in a tree looking for a vantage point. Every little gust of wind was his breath.

After what felt like half an hour, Stiles got tired of the false alarms. He had never depended on someone so wholly before. He wasn’t used to it. Couldn’t handle it. How did Damsels in Distress do it? They seemed to deal with relative ease. Certainly, they were made of tougher stuff than Stiles.

Sadly, even after admitting that the frailest of fictional damsels had more fortitude than he had on any particular day, help did not arrive. Help being Derek, which was still weird. And thus Stiles resigned himself to blinking his eyes until they focused. Something that was apparently very difficult when it was pitch. Fucking. Black. Who knew?

“I spy with my little eye something dark,” Stiles mumbled to himself, settling further against the trunk of the tree at his back. It was the only mildly-illuminated thing he could see, due in part to a gap in the foliage above. “A shadow? Hey, what do you know? I’m right! My turn. I spy with my little eye something… black. Hmm, I wonder if it's the shadow in the shape of a leaf.

“Is it the leaf-shadow? Yes it is! Congratulations, me! I’m so smart!” Burying his face in his hands, the boy groaned. “It’s been ten minutes and I’m already going crazy.”

“ _No you’re not._ ”

Stiles jumped. “Who’s there?” His voice shook, hands shooting behind him to touch the tree, suddenly needing confirmation that nothing was at his back. “I said _who’s there_!” the boy demanded, words just an unsure. “If this is some kind of prank it’s not funny!”

The forest’s only reply was to rustle slightly in the wake of a slight breeze.

“Scott?” he asked, voice nearly silent as he choked it past his throat. He cleared it quickly before continuing. “Erica? Miłogost? Whoever’s out there, show yourself.”

Again, there was no reply.

“Hello?”

“Stiles!”

The shout caught the boy off guard, making him nearly fall over in surprise. Within seconds a figure sprinted out of the darkness, barrelling toward him at a dead sprint. “Der-” was all Stiles managed before the man grabbed him, pulling him into very thick, very warm arms in a gesture the teen wasn’t aware the man was capable of.

Derek’s face was instantly buried in Stiles’ hair, inhaling deeply with a thin whine. “I thought you were dead,” he grumbled lightly. “Or you found a way to piss off a spirit.”

“Derek, it’s cool. I’m fine. You can let me go.” The arms wound around his waist tightened, drawing him further into the man’s neck, and Stiles found himself nuzzling into the divot of his throat out of instinct. “Okay, long hugs. Long hugs are cool.”

Without warning, Derek withdrew quickly, holding Stiles in a near-blistering grip at arm’s length. “What the hell were you thinking, disappearing like that? Do you know how worried everyone was? The entire town is in an uproar.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re kidding, right? It’s been _two days_ , Stiles. There have been search parties.”

Stiles jerked out of the man’s grip, taking a step away from the irate werewolf. “That’s stupid. It’s what – nine at night? Ten?”

“It’s three in the morning,” Derek replied darkly. “On a Monday.”

“What? No. That’s ridiculous. I mean, the last thing I remember is heading home from Danny’s, getting… Changing clothes. Then I started moving towards my bed and, like…” He trailed off, finding a sudden lack of memory after he had pulled on his pajamas. “Either way, it can’t have been two days. People don’t just black out for two days and wake up in the woods. I can barely walk through this place awake, let alone in my sleep.”

“And how do you explain this?” the man inquired quietly. “A prank?”

“O-” Stiles cut off, expression going from standoffish to sour. “A prank on me? Or on you?”

Derek’s arms dropped to his side, and he opened his mouth to speak, but instead of words came a strangled noise as Stiles fell to the ground without his support.

“Man, my legs hurt. Why would my legs hurt?”

“Because you’ve been walking,” he explained bitterly, grabbing at Stiles’ arm and pulling it over his shoulder. He hoisted the boy to his feet, hands steady. “For a long time, apparently.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. He allowed himself to be adjusted and handled, deciding to enjoy the feeling of Derek’s hands on him for the moment. “Yeah. Sure. And why would I be walking so long without even being conscious?”

“ _Because killing a spirit is bad luck,_ ” the voice from before called.

Stiles jerked his head around, eyeing the darkness of the forest. “Alright, come out already!”

“Stiles?” Derek asked, confused. “What are you doing? There’s no one there.”

“Don’t lie to me. That’s the second time they’ve said something.”

“Stiles, the closest living thing to this spot is a squirrel in its den half a mile that way.” Adjusting his grip on Stiles, Derek pointed off to their right with a grimace. “Now tell me honestly; are you hearing things?”

The boy seemed to puff up almost like a fish at this. “I am not hearing things!” he insisted stubbornly.

“Okay, then. What is this shadow saying?”

“And why would I tell you?”

“Because it might be important.”

“Yeah right.” Stiles attempted to pull out of the man’s grip, anger fuelling his limp limbs. “Like you’d ever be concerned. You’re just some jerk in a leather jacket.”

“Stiles,” Derek hissed. He pulled to a stop, hitching the boy’s arm further over his shoulder. “What are they saying?”

Turning back to face the man, Stiles was surprised to find his expression as flat as he’d ever seen it. It didn’t look like Derek was making fun of him. (Truly, a first.) Slowly, he began to realize Derek wasn’t really the type to poke that kind of fun. Upon realizing this, Stiles’ tongue snuck out to wet his suddenly dry lips, and he watched, almost in a trance, as Derek’s eyes seemed to trail after the motion like they had no other choice. “They’re saying,” he saw, mouth snapping shut as the man’s head shot around to stare at the ground in front of them, focussing almost too intently on their feet as they navigated through the roots. “It said killing a spirit is bad luck.”

“It is,” the man replied gruffly, as if not really paying attention. Like all he wanted was to get away from there.

Dare he say it, Derek looked scared.

Derek looked scared of him.

…

“You gave him an iron knife?” Laura snapped, slamming her hand down on the medical table between them. “Are you an idiot?”

From where he was leaning between two informational posters about dog care, Derek huffed. “I didn’t think he’d actually be able to kill the Nocnitsa. It is Stiles we’re talking about. Athletic ability of a barn wall, remember?”

“It’s also a Nocnitsa we’re talking about,” she hissed. “It’s victims are usually _asleep_. And now he’s hearing _voices_ because you thought it would be a good idea to give him the one thing he needed to _kill something_.”

“Well if you had given a straight answer about how to repel it maybe I wouldn’t have needed to give him the knife!”

“You didn’t need to give him the knife at all!”

“Now, now,” Deaton interrupted, stepping into the light with a calm smile and a wave of his hand. He looked at home in his operating room, as poorly lit as it currently was. “There’s a chance the Nocnitsa has nothing to do with Stiles’ walk through the woods and sudden ability to hear non-corporeal voices.”

Laura rolled her eyes. “First Stiles kills a sleep spirit, then he spends two days sleepwalking through the forest. Sure. Totally unrelated.”

“I’m more worried that this has something more to do with Stiles than with the Nocnitsa.”

“Stiles is 100% human,” Laura deadpanned. “Trust me. He can cross Mountain Ash and everything.”

…

Stiles stared down at the hoop of mountain ash around his bed, throat closing up. Holding his hand out, he reached for the mattress, only for a soft, blue light to shine briefly around his fingers  and force them harshly into his chest.

“Well,” he mumbled to himself, rubbing sorely at his fingers. “This is a problem.”

…

“I am not questioning Stiles’ position as a human. I am only saying a Nocnitsa does not have the ability to curse anyone,” Deaton insisted quietly. “Something else has to be causing this. A witch, or a Youma.”

“We would have felt a witch the moment they cast anything,” Laura pointed out quickly, crossing her arms against her chest.

“As would I,” the man agreed, nodding calmly. “And while I would usually hesitate to say it’s a Youma…” He cleared his throat. “The last known Kitsune in Beacon Hills, while it didn’t do any damage to the town, did kill its host. To be honest, it’s very possibly Stiles is possessed.”

“Very possible?” Laura asked, eyes wandering to Derek as he stepped forward to join the two at the table. “What do you mean, ‘very possible?’ Why would Stiles be possessed by a Kitsune?”

Deaton sighed, eyes fluttering shut as he slotted his hands together and addressed the younger man. “Stiles’ mother, Claudia, was possessed by a Nogitsune,” he explained quietly. “As was her mother before her, and her mother before her. I’ll admit; I don’t know much about the situation. Not many did, considering she kept the secret so close. But from what I can guess, she was not the first in her family to have the affliction.”

“But even if his mother was possessed, Kitsune can’t possess or turn into men,” Laura argued. “Men don’t have the right hormones in the brain to support another life within them. That’s basics.”

Deaton nodded. “That may be why Stiles doesn’t remember his trip into the woods. Ki-tsune, in an old dialect of Japanese, literally means ‘come sleep.’ Meanwhile, ‘Kitsu-ne’ means ‘always come.’ In many myths they are both referenced, resulting in the folktale, ‘Come Sleep Always,’ which I imagine your mother told you when you were a child.”

The woman bobbed her head quietly. “The one about the survivor of La Bête du Gévaudan?”

“The very same. But I imagine it has some truth to it. If Stiles is, in fact, possessed by the Nogitsune that possessed his mother, he will not remember a single moment of his excursions. He will be asleep. As a boy, he will not be capable of carrying another soul within him. Let alone the memories of one.”

“I think we’re jumping to conclusions a bit here. What if he just had a mental break or something? I mean, he just killed a spirit on top of his boyfriend. He could have just had a meltdown.”

“Or a frontotemporal related incident.”

“Excuse me?”

“At this point, the question we should be asking is not whether or not Stiles is possessed by a Nogitsune,” Deaton told them quietly, expression dark. “You should be asking if Claudia had the affliction because of her family, or if her family had the affliction because of the Nogitsune.”

Derek growled, startling the other two as he barked, “Why are you so set on Stiles being possessed? He’s not possessed!”

…

When his father came home that night and found him on the couch, the two heaved twin sighs and sat down for the greasy takeout Stiles had prepared.

“How far out did you walk?” was the first thing his father asked.

It felt like a slap. “About fifteen miles, I think.”

“Do you remember any of it?”

“No.”

There was a long silence before his father spoke again, tone soft and even despite how closed off his expression was. “Do you think it’s time to go in for a scan?”

“Not yet,” Stiles murmured quietly. “I don’t want to go in quite yet.”

His father nodded, then took a long swig of beer. “Okay,” he said.

Aside from calling off the search parties, that was all he said for the rest of the evening.

…

Stiles had barely stepped out of his Jeep the following day before he found himself slammed against the side. “Watch the face!” was all he managed to whine before his cheek slapped against the metal with a hollow slap. “Owe.”

“I swear to god, Stilinski, if you go anywhere near Danny today I will become your personal poltergeist.”

“Big words, Jacky-boy,” the younger boy teased, hands tapping out a nervous rhythm against his legs despite his bravado. “Did you read a dictionary before coming to physically assault me in a public area? I bet your parents are so proud of you right now.” Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t to have his face pulled away from the car by his hair and forced against the side, jarring his jaw and forehead. “Oh my god, leave it to you to have daddy issues.”

“I do not have daddy issues,” the blonde snapped. “And if you knew what was good for you, you’d shut the fuck up and do what you are told. Now, what were you told?”

“I before E, except after C,” Stiles recited boldly, earning himself a sucker-punch to the kidney for his troubles. Down he went, onto the pavement with a sharp whine.

Settling his foot against the boy’s head, Jackson enunciated each word with a slight bit of pressure against the boy’s cheek. “Stay. Away. From. Danny,” he hissed. “Am I making myself clear?”

Stiles grimaced. “I don’t know. You might want to try-”

“Am I making myself _clear_?” Jackson asked again, resting a bit more weight onto his foot with a sharp growl.

On the ground, the boy squared his jaw before biting out a miserable, “Crystal.”

“Good.”Stepping away, Jackson tugged his jacket back into place before turning on his heel and beginning toward the school doors.

Rising to his feet, Stiles laughed. “We’re going out, you know,” he pointed out. “It’s kind of hard to avoid him.”

There was no answer.

…

Whenever he saw Danny coming, Stiles walked in the opposite direction.

…

Stiles also skipped three classes and went home early. The teacher at the front doors didn’t bother trying to stop him.

Sometimes it paid to be the talk of the town.

…

“- like, I have a legitimate response now. If Danny asks me why I’m avoiding giving him an answer, I’ll just tell him Jackson threatened me. Problem solved. And if he asks about the Nocnitsa, I’ll just tell him he was dreaming or something. Double problem solved. Everyone’s happy.”

“I’m pretty sure no one’s happy,” Derek pointed out dryly.

“I agree with Derek on this one, kid. I mean, you’re avoiding your boyfriend, and his best friend is threatening you. I’m pretty sure this means you’re not happy, Danny’s not happy, Jackson’s not happy, and that Nocnitsa you killed? Don’t even get me started on that,” Laura added, stepping out of the kitchen with a wide whisk, only to pause and openly stare. “No offense, but the speed at which you guys transitioned between name calling and lap buddies alarms me.”

On the couch, Stiles shifted his head until it was a more comfortable position on Derek’s lap. He winced as his bruised cheek brushed a bit too harshly against muscle. Adjusting again, he smiled as he found a softer patch of flesh. Above him, Derek shifted his grip on the book he had cradled against the boy’s arm.

Laura scowled. “Yup. Still alarming.”

“He’s pack,” Derek stated simply, leaving no room for argument.

Groaning, the woman retreated back into the kitchen.

Stiles frowned, straining his neck to look towards the retreating steps. “Wait – I thought she wasn’t allowed in there? Her rules.”

“She’s making fruit-juice pops,” the older teen pointed out. That was something Stiles often forgot; they were nearly the same age. It was an odd thing to realize, though it was easier to grasp since Derek had shaved off his “I Miss Laura” beard. “There’s nothing she can set on fire or short circuit.”

The boy made a noise in the back of his throat, nodding twice before relaxing back into the cushion of the man’s legs. “That’s reassuring.” Grabbing up his iPod, he popped the ear buds back in his ears and hummed along to the static and occasional listings.

“Anything interesting today?” Derek asked, turning a page idly.

“There was a 314 on Larson,” Stiles informed him airily. “That’s Indecent Exposure, B-T-dubs. And there’s been some petty theft out near town hall.”

“How do you memorize all these?”

“I used to listen with my mom.”

Derek remained calm in the face of the onslaught of new information. But while his face remained blank his hand twitched against the book. “Oh?” was all he could bring himself to say.

“Yeah.” Stiles offered nothing else.

The conversation drew to an abrupt halt.

No one spoke until Laura came in from the kitchen, a smear of strawberry juice down her arm, accompanied by a persistent demand that they change the channel back to Law and Order.

…

Scott was in bed when he got the call.

“What?” he grumbled into the phone, staring blearily up at the ceiling.

“ _905S near the warehouses, dude. Get your ass up._ ”

“905-”

“ _Stray animal,_ ” Stiles clarified. “ _Get dressed. Laura needs you there. I’ll be there in five, okay? That’s five minutes, not hours, in case you were wondering. Up, up, up!_ ”

The line went dead and Scott groaned miserably.

He fell out of bed in a mix of grace and not-grace before stumbling blindly to the bathroom. Taking a moment to splash water on his face, the teen made a point to stare into the mirror and tell himself calmly, “It’s wrong to kill people.” Then, nodding pointedly to himself, he stepped out of the bathroom and grabbed up his clothes from the day before.

…

They were driving for nearly half an hour before it occurred to Scott to ask, “We’re not headed to the Warehouse district, are we?”

“Bingo, my man,” Stiles singsonged. “We’re going to the woods _beside_ the Warehouse district because you, my friend, are a Werewolf. And the leader of your little pack has insisted that we avoid the police at all cost tonight. Because you’re Werewolves.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a reason aside from us being werewolves,” the older boy pointed out.

This was met with silence.

For ten minutes.

“I think that guy’s following us,” Scott murmured after a long while, peering into the rearview mirror at the dark car that had been driving innocuously behind them for the last four miles.

“Well who is it?” Stiles asked. “Come on, Scott. What do your wolf eyes see? A little old lady?”

The older boy frowned. “That’s a reference, isn’t it?”

“If this is where you tell me you haven’t seen Lord of the Rings yet I am renouncing our fellowship right here and now.”

“That’s the one with the Habits, right?”

“Hobbits. And now that you are 75% safe from my wrath would you please just tell me who the hell is in the car behind us?”

Squinting out the back window, Scott groaned. “I can’t tell. Their headlights are too bright. I can’t see anything.”

“Oh, that’s just brilliant,” Stiles drawled, jaw pulling bitterly to the side as he bared his teeth in a grimace, tonguing at the bottom row before he snapped his mouth shut. “Billions of years of evolution enhanced by Supernatural wonders and defeated by something shiny. Fantastic.”

“I think they’re pulling away,” the older boy noted, watching closely as the car behind them slowed, then turned off the road. “Okay, they’re gone.”

“Thanks for the narration. My rearview mirror was utterly silent. Honestly, I never would have figured that out if you never told me.”

“You’re being  a dick again.”

“I know. Now get in your seat before I get pulled over and fined for a passenger without a seat belt.”

…

“Okay, yeah, they’re following us,” Stiles admitted, pulling up beside Laura’s car and watching as, in the distance down the road, the car that had been tailing them pulled off to the side. The driver stepped out onto the street, glancing both ways before crossing and jogging toward the woods. “Now did you see who it was, Scotty?”

“Why the hell was Danny following you?” Laura asked, coming up behind them.

Scott sighed. “Stiles has been avoiding him.”

“I knew that,” the woman deadpanned. “He came to my place after school and sulked. You avoided him for a day. That doesn’t mean he’s obligated to follow you out into the middle of nowhere. That’s pretty crazy. Like, bad crazy, not good crazy.”

“Wait, Danny?” Stiles sputtered. “ _Danny_ was the one following us? He doesn’t even have a car.”

“Well, whether you like it or not, he’s headed this way,” Laura snapped, waving her hand at the woods. “So go take care of him, okay? We need to figure out if Peter’s been through here, and we can’t do that with Danny lurking around.”

That was how Stiles found himself standing in the middle of the woods at 2AM shouting, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” He tapped his foot impatiently, and when the rustles of leaves betrayed the older boy’s approach he grumbled, “You know, when I imagined us talking, it didn’t involve you stalking me.”

Danny scoffed. “Funny; me neither.”

“Life works in mysterious ways.”

“Just tell me what the hell’s going on, would you?” the boy snapped, stepping closer with a scowl. “And as much as you love bullshit, would you mind restraining yourself?”

“Oh, come on,” Stiles whined. “When have I bullshitted with you?”

“You’re doing it right now.”

Silence followed, then Stiles shrugged. “I can’t tell you.”

“What?”

“That’s it. I can’t tell you.” As soon as the words left his mouth, that’s when Stiles saw them.

Glowing. Yellow. Eyes.

“Danny, don’t move,” he whispered sharply, going still.

“What the hell?” the older boy gasped. “Now isn’t the time to play some stupid game, Stiles.”

“I am being so fucking serious right here.”

Danny stepped forward heavily, arm waving angrily through the air as he shouted, “So am I!”

That’s when it lunged, paws out to catch its weight against the boy’s arm before its teeth snapped uselessly on thin air. Danny was down, thrown to the ground in a mix of poor balance and surprise. Within seconds the pack was there, hands gripping the creature’s limbs and pulling it away from the terrified boy. Stiles was at his side in an instant. Grabbing at Danny’s arm, he tore off his flannel and wrapped it around the wound.

“What the hell was that?” the boy whined, free hand hovering around his arm protectively, voice squealing as his throat closed up.

“Get him out of here,” Laura shouted.

Stiles didn’t need to be told twice, hauling Danny up by his armpits and dragged him in the direction of the boy’s car. He tossed his keys at Scott, watching as the boy barely managed to snatch them between wrangling the dark mess of flesh that was apparently Peter. It wasn’t a wolf; wasn’t human.

Honestly, it closely resembled Remus Lupin.

“Give me your keys,” Stiles demanded of the boy he was hauling, drawing to a stop before the strange car.

Danny jerked out of his grip to stand on his own. “They’re my mom’s keys, technically, and I can walk by myself thanks,” he snapped, digging into his pocket before handing over the keys. But when Stiles went to grab them, he snatched them back, holding them above his shoulder. “But first you have to tell me what’s going on.”

Leveling his boyfriend with a dry look, Stiles crossed his arms with a petulant sound in the back of his throat. “Either you can stand there all night bleeding out for an answer that doesn’t concern you,” the younger boy snapped, “or I can take you to the hospital. Your choice.”

A long moment passed before Danny held out the keys. “Fine,” he hissed through his teeth. “But we’re going to talk. Saturday. 3PM. My place. No excuses.”

…

Stiles paced across the linoleum, hand buried in the grow-out of his buzz cut and phone pressed flush against his face. “So you’ve got Peter all settled, then?”

“ _We have him secured in a safe house our family used to use. It’s in the middle of the woods, so even if he howls no one will hear him._ ”

“Great. That’s great news. Have you gotten him to be, like, any less feral? ‘Cause that would be helpful. You know – what with all the attacking people he’s done, lately.”

“ _Haha. Very funny. And no; no luck on that part_.”

“Why don’t you just force him back, like you did with Scott? That was pretty cool.”

“ _I’m not going to force him out of it unless I have to. The last thing we need is for him to go into shock. I don’t think his body could handle it right now._ ”

“Ah.”

“ _How’s Danny?_ ” she asked, sounding a bit forced.

Stiles sighed, feet drawing to a stop as he glance down the hall towards the unit Danny had been taken to. “They took a while to get to him, but he’s better. I haven’t seem him since he got out of getting stitches. But I just... what happens if the same thing happens with him that happened with Scott?”

Laura made a negative hum at this. “ _He wasn’t bitten. He shouldn’t have the same side effects Scott did. Speaking of which, he’s on his way in your Jeep_.”

“But what about Danny? How’s he getting home?”

“ _His parents would have been informed that he was in the hospital_ ,” she pointed out, deadpan. “ _Now get your ass out of there before the police arrive._ ”

Stiles’ eyebrows shot up. He glanced around, searching for any nurses or cameras, before walking as casually as he could out of the hospital. “Good call. I’ll go hide in the bushes.”

“ _That’s the spirit,_ ” Laura drawled with faux enthusiasm.

“No, seriously, I’m going to go hide in the bushes,” Stiles replied. “All the entrances are used by the police. No matter where I go, there’s a chance they’ll see me. I’m going to hide in the bushes.”

“ _Have fun._ ”

“That’s the idea. Bye.”

“ _Bye_.”

Hanging up, Stiles stepped through the doors and eyed the well-trimmed hedges that surrounded the building. “You and I are going to become very well acquainted in the next ten minutes,” he told them solemnly. “Very, very well acquainted."


	14. Run

Saturday came far too soon for Stiles’ liking, rearing its ugly head like a pissed stallion hellbent on making his life miserable.

While this is an over exaggeration, this is also partially true. The weather had continued to wonk the fuck out, slicing through the sky and piercing random trees and unfortunate bits of ground with spears of lightning and pebbles of hail. Stiles hadn’t managed to get a wink of sleep all night. His earbuds had been all but glued into his ears. He’d strained for hours, listening intently to the scanner as the storm raged against his window.

Thankfully, the worst of it consisted of a small, “ _We’ve got a 586F on Oak street. 926 requested._ ”

“ _Copy. Standby for 926A._ ”

The entirety of Beacon County had been issued a red flag warning, so he figured it could definitely be worse than a car parked in front of a fire hydrant.

When the radio fell silent after the illegal parking report, Stiles let his eyes wander to the hoop of Mountain Ash propped up against his closet door. It almost seemed to glitter in the scant moonlight filtering through the curtains on the window.

…

“No progress, I take it?” Derek muttered, stepping into the cellar with a grimace. He eyed the roots twining around his uncle, zip-tied into place to keep him from thrashing out of his bindings.

Laura shook her head and leaned back in her chair with a groan of discomfort. “Not really.

The younger man frowned. “If this goes on for two long we will have to put him down. He’s a liability. If he bites anyone else the Hunters will come for us. I’m surprised they haven’t already.”

“Yes,” she acquiesced. The woman opened her mouth, as if to speak, only to close it again.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Derek asked, handing a sandwich to his sister.

“Stiles,” she answered quietly. “First his friend is bitten. Then the Hunters had his shoes in their living area. Now Deaton says he might be possessed. He’s becoming more trouble than he’s worth. All it would take is a little nudge – miniscule, really – and everything would fly out of order. If Stiles meets Chris Argent, we’re dead. If Chris Argent finds out the rogue wolf was Peter, we’re dead. If neither of these things happen and Stiles spends too much time under possession, he’s dead. I’m not used to so much going on.”

The both glanced up as Peter let out a low, sharp growl that pierced through the room.

Laura sighed. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ll figure something out,” Derek encouraged her, smile small and quiet. “You always do.”

“I’m not Mom, Der,” she snapped. “I can’t just fix things as they come.”

Derek shrugged. “Then focus on one thing at a time.”

“You say that like it’s easy.”

“It’s not supposed to be easy,” he replied coolly. “It’s just supposed to be easier.”

…

A single shaft of light crept over the edge of the windowsill and into Stiles’ room, illuminating the lowest strip of his pajama shirt. The boy still lie awake, gaze trained on the ceiling as his iPod blared white-noise into his ears. It was then that the sound came; separate from the rumble of thunder and the crash of rain. His eyes shot open as the hum of an engine pulled out in front of the house.

Sliding off the bed, the boy made his way carefully down the stairs, meeting his father in the living room with a towel and a heavy smile.

“Stiles,” his father greeted him, surprised. He closed the door behind him, turning curious eyes on the boy. He accepted the towel with a sigh. “What are you still doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replied honestly, hands dropping back down to his sides. “How was work?”

Shrugging, the Sheriff dropped into the seat of the couch with a groan. “Long.” Reaching up above his head, he clenched his hands together and stretched.

Without much of anything else to do, Stiles turns on the TV and flops beside his father on the couch.

“You’ve been having a rough go of it,” his father pointed out after two long infomercials. On the screen, a woman explained the vacuum technology of a blender. “Mind filling me in on what’s been going on in that head of yours?”

Stiles shrugged. “Mostly school and video games.”

“And the Mahealani boy?”

The boy flinched, glancing at his father out of the corner of his eye before deflating. “You would know about that.”

“Small town. People talk,” his father informed him quietly. “Is he the reason you skipped school?”

“I didn’t-”

“Don’t lie to me. The attendance office called me personally. Now; mind filling me in?”

Stiles bit his lip, sunk further into the couch, and shrugged.

“Is there a reason you don’t feel like you can tell me, Stiles?” he asked, voice calm and smooth. “Is it the gay thing? Because you know I love you anyway, right?”

“Bisexual, and no, it’s not. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

The Sheriff reached for the remote, switched the channel to that of another infomercial, and eased back in his chair with a relaxed groan. “Well,” he drawled slowly, “I guess it’s the thought that counts in this sort of situation.”

Stiles gave his father a long look at this, gaze lingering on the damp parts of his uniform and the towel thrown over his damp hair. “That’s it?”

“Well, if you _insist_ , if you ever skip school again you’ll find your ass grounded before you can pull out of the parking lot.”

…

Laura dragged her arm across her forehead, wiping away the beads of water that clung to it and her hair after tossing it over her captive. She leaned against the wall, dropped the bucket to the ground, and giggled quietly. “You’re an old man, alright,” she teased, eyes dragging up from the floor to meet the steady, glowing blue of a handsome man chained to the opposite side of the room.

“Why?” the man asked in a slow, tired, sarcastic drawl. “Is it because of the gray? Too much salt in my pepper? Or is it my preference for vinyl?”

She laughed. “You’ve missed quite a bit in the last few years. First of all, vinyl is in.”

“Hipsters?”

“Hipsters.”

“God help us.”

Stepping away from the wall, Laura grabbed at the short length of chain fastening Peter to the wall. “Well, how about we get you out of these?”

“I would very much like that,” Peter told her earnestly. “And pancakes. Please tell me you learned how to cook.”

…

Three in the afternoon approached all too quickly, leaving Stiles in a frantic rush to get himself together. Clothes were changed, teeth were brushed, hair (what little of it he had) was combed to Jackson proportions. Halfway through his preparations his father stepped in with a look.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, leaning up against the door frame. His eyes lingered on the patch of hair Stiles was currently working at, fingers smoothing the section down almost nervously.

His son nodded, attention fixed on his reflection. “I have to go to Danny’s place.”

“If your going to Danny’s you might not want to put so much of that in your hair,” the man recommended, eyebrows raising skeptically as Stiles upended a bottle of gel into his hand.

“Dad, as much as it disturbs me that you’re trying to get me laid comfortably, it’s not that kind of meetup.”

“Oh…” He sighed. “Good talk or bad talk?”

“Probably a breakup talk,” Stiles told him honestly.

The Sheriff sighed. “You think next time you could introduce me to whoever you’re dating before you break up with them?”

…

Peter was on this fourth plate of pancakes before Laura said anything.

“So… what’s a coma like?”

In the kitchen, bent over a skillet, Derek laughed.

…

It wasn’t raining when Stiles arrived at Danny’s apartment complexes. No.

It was pouring. Pissing. Screaming. Wind hissed through the trees and tore at the canvas top of his Jeep, wailing in his ears and slapping the windshield like a paddle. The boy could barely keep going straight for a while as gusts of wind attempted to push him off the road. Overhead, thunder crashed ominously.

Drawing to a stop at an intersection, Stiles groaned. “This is going to suck,” he muttered just as a streak of lightning cracked through the sky. It slammed into a nearby tree, blinding the boy for a long, terrifying moment.

Should he even be outside?

Quickly turning his windshield wipers up one more notch, Stiles waited for the light to turn green.

…

When Stiles arrived at the Mahealani’s apartment he didn’t dawdle in the parking lot. Didn’t buy time by fiddling with his phone or checking for texts. It didn’t occur to him how out of character he felt around Danny until he was knocking on the door, hands in his pockets in an attempt to ward off the chill of the breeze. Water sluiced loudly off the roof and onto the concrete sidewalk, several feet away from him now that he had made it up the stairs. It was loud, but quiet. Almost a muffled sort of sound. So when the door flew open Stiles’ eyes were elsewhere.

“Come on in,” Danny told him, stepping to the side.

Stiles jumped and turned to face his boyfriend before nodding eagerly. Stepping over the threshold, he bit his lip as the door closed behind him.

The older boy motioned toward the living room couches. “Take a seat.”

The next few minutes passed as if they hadn’t even happened. Before Stiles knew it they had taken seats in chairs opposite each other, and Danny had pressed a mug of cocoa into his hands. The marshmallows floated aimlessly from side to side until they all clustered against one edge of the mug. It was at this point that the younger boy took a drink, glancing toward the windows as he did. He could see the shadows from the rain through the lacy, decorative curtains. No doubt, from certain angles, people outside could see them, too.

He wondered for a moment what they would think of him.

“So,” Stiles drawled. “Do you want to start?”

“Why? Is there anything you need to say to me?”

Turning his attention to the marshmallows floating uselessly in his cup, the younger boy shrugged. “I don’t, really. You’re kind of the perfect guy.”

“I’m really not.”

“Yeah, you really are,” Stiles insisted.

Danny sighed. "You need to be more honest with me, or this isn't going to work."

“I know.”

“You go missing when we have things planned, never tell anyone where you're going, and nine times out of ten you don't even acknowledge my texts."

“Fair enough.”

"Fair-” Danny choked over the words, eyes narrowing at the boy in the opposite seat until they were nearly slits. “You need to tell me what's going on!"

"I can't, okay? You're not involved-"

"Not involved? Not _involved_?” he gaped, jumping to his feet, cocoa nearly sloshing onto the carpet as he set it down on the end table. Motioning to his arm, the older boy screamed, “I was just _attacked_."

"You're not..."

"No,” Danny snapped. They were knee to knee, and Danny stared down at Stiles with a mix of fury and fear. “You do not get to tell me I’m not involved after that. You told me to tell the nurses it was a mountain lion. And I _did_ , and I _still_ didn't get any explanation from you."

“You’re right.”

“Why the hell are you so calm?” His arms snapped out, needing somewhere to go, only to smack hollowly into the side of the end table lamp. A well-timed lunge saved it, but then there was a horrible silence in its place. “I…” Danny began, then cleared it throat.

A tear dropped onto the knee of Stiles’ pants, and the younger boy looked up to find his boyfriend crying. It was a quiet thing; tears dripping without any accompanying wails or hiccups down his tanned, handsome face and falling gently to the floor. They might as well have been the nails of his coffin.

“We’re having a fight,” Danny growled. His voice boomed as he found his anger again. “Stop accepting every I say. Get up! Yell! Do _something_!”

“But I’m not angry,” Stiles confessed, voice low. “I just feel…” _tired_. “I’m an asshole. And you deserve better than me.”

Silence settled between them, and Danny fell back onto the couch. “Jackson was right about you,” he mumbled after a long while, hand buried in his hair and eyes tinged red. “You only went out with me because I was the first person to ask.”

“Yeah,” the younger boy agreed. It was as if someone had taken the weigh from his stomach and placed it in his heart. “Jackson was right.”

…

“Scott? Honey? You home?”

Scott glanced up from his Chemistry homework, turning his eyes on his mom as she peeked through his bedroom. “Yeah, Mom. I’m home.”

She nodded, smiling sweetly. “I’ve got a swing shift again. Thought I’d let you know.”

…

When he got back into his room, Stiles collapsed onto his bed and fired off a quick text.

_To: Scott_

_Danny and I broke up._

Then, switching his phone off and plugging it into the charger, he fell onto his bed and went to sleep.

…

Scott glanced up from his Chemistry homework as his phone buzzed.

A pale hand shot out and snatched it up. Erica glanced at the front cover, reading the number displayed before she tossed it to Scott with a, “Text from Stiles.”

The boy caught it easily in one hand, his other occupied with a pencil. Flipping the phone open, he scanned over the message before lightly hitting enter to reply.

_Are you okay?_ he typed out slowly, fingers lingering over keys a bit too long before tapping out the letters one by one.

“That is not a good look,” Erica observed quietly, expression tense. “What’s going on?”

“Stiles and Danny broke up,” Scott informed her quietly. He sent the message, then glanced up at the girl on the other side of the bed. His mouth was halfway open when the phone went off, blaring the default tune on one of the lowest settings.

“Is that him?”

Scott shook his head. “No,” he whispered, voice soft. “It’s Allison.”

Erica watched, eyes wide, as the boy answered.

“Hey.”

“ _Hi, Scott._ ”

“Hi,” he said again, staring into space blankly. “What’s, uh… What’s up?”

“ _I just got out of a family meeting. We’ll be increasing surveillance in and around the preserve. It would be best for you and the pack to avoid the forested areas for the time being_.”

“Oh…” He couldn’t help the disappointment that seeped into his voice. And as he turned away from Erica, dropping his pencil to his notebook in the process, he began to shrink into himself. “Is that all?”

“ _Have a good day, Scott_.”

The line clicked twice, then went dead.

…

When Stiles finally woke, the world was a blur of movement. Everything was a smudge of color, like the lens of a camera had been left open too long and all the colors had begun to bleed together. The world swum around him. He swum through the world. Honestly, he had no idea what was going on.

He just knew he was moving.

… _hear me_ …

Falling.

… _sti_ …

Stopping.

“Stiles, you need to wake up right now!”

Horrible, glorious contrast met his eyes as the entire world came to a stop around him. Shadows, shafts of light, the rustle of animals and trees and plants.

Miłogost.

He looked more like a tree than ever before. The roots of his arms squealed as he leaned forward to grip Stiles’ elbow, holding him upright. And as he spoke the bark of his face shifted and cracked, lines forming along his mouth and eyes. “Get out,” he told him, voice raspy and thick. “Get out of the forest _now_.”

The Leszy dropped his arm, leaving the boy to stumble for a semblance of balance. “What’s going – why am I here?”

“Now is not the time for questions, _chłopak_. Now run,” the spirit advised, stepping against a tree. Slowly, his face seemed to melt into it. The roots around his feet burst outwards, anchoring him to the ground.

Stiles glanced about, turning from side to side. The sun had begun to set, and shadows spilled through the forest floor. “Run?” he asked, eyes fixed on the dying light filtering through the treetops. “Run where?”

“ _Moja mały przyjaciel,_ ” Miłogost whispered, holding his finger up to the air. Upon it alighted a small, gray bird; its face white and wings speckled with sap. “ _Mały szary jeden, poprowadzić go do brzegu. Trzymaj go bezpiecznie z ludzi z pożaru w ich rękach._ ”

The bird chirped, then flew off into the mess of trees. Stiles watched it go, curious.

“It is time for spirits to hide,” the Leszy whispered sagely, lips barely discernable from the rest of his face in the approaching twilight. “Run before they find you, _wnuk_.”

In the distance, the grey jay chirped, and the boy turned from the spirit, distracted. When he turned back, there was nothing to see but a tree.

…

After wiping down the counters, Derek undid the apron fastened to his front and made his way into the dining room.

“What?” Laura asked, smiling. “Run out of mix already?”

Derek scoffed. “I think Peter’s eaten enough pancakes.”

“Honestly, I could do with a few more,” the man in question protested behind his mountain of a stack. He dug into it with more gusto than would should have after three stacks, grinning from ear to ear. “Now,” he mumbled around the bite, careful not to spew bits across the table. “Mind telling me what brought you two back to Beacon Hills?”

With dry expressions, Laura and Derek set about filling him in.

…

The sun had begun to set, and Stiles was operating entirely on the chirps of the bird he could no longer see. Whenever he felt like he was getting close it would flit off into the distance, leading him to a new spot. This had gone on for nearly an hour, and his feet were growing raw.

“You’d think I’d remember to put on shoes when I sleepwalk into the woods, but _no_ ,” he drawled. “I had to go _barefoot_.”

Leaning his weight against a tree to catch his footing as he stumbled, he cried out as roots crunched and gave beneath his foot, sending him knee-deep into a rabbit hole.

“The fuck?” he yelped, tugging violently at his leg, snapping his knee up almost brutally in an attempt to free it. His foot caught on the top of the hole, and he nearly fell forward in the attempt. His hands scrambled over the base of the tree, and behind him came the district crack of splintering wood. He felt the rush of air after it had passed. The sting along his back. The tear in his shirt. The open air behind him rushing in to fill it.

The trickle of blood down his spine.

“Dammit, I missed,” a voice hissed in the distance, and there was the cocking of gears.

“Don’t worry,” another voice said. “I won’t.”

There was a small chirp, and for a moment Stiles swore he felt the brush of feathers against his ears and a small, high voice telling him, “ _Brace yourself,_ ” before the entire forest erupted in feathers. It was loud. Almost deafening. Thousands of birds swarmed through the trees, chirping and squealing like an army of alarms.

Stiles turned in place, gaping first at the Hunters standing not fifty feet from him, then at the crossbow bolt buried deep in the tree behind him.

“Oh god,” he choked, throat closing up as he gaped at the splintered trunk in the low light of the moon. He turned back to the Hunters, watching in awe as they were swarmed by hundreds, thousands, of birds, blocking them from view. It was as if the entire forest was a noise; filling his ears and his head until he could think of nothing else.

A hand settled on his shoulder.

Stiles jumped, squeak rising in the back of his throat as his attention turned to the figure beside him. At his side was a small girl with dark skin, a long mane of leaves, and eyes glowing a delicate green. “This way!” she leaned up to whisper into his ear, hand folding gently around the curve of his wrist. She leaned back, staring up at him with bright eyes and a smile that was visible even in the dark. Then she pulled him with surprising force away from the site. Nearly dragged him down until he managed to stumble into something resembling a jaunt, allowing himself to be led at a dead sprint further into the trees.

Sticks and rocks crunched painfully beneath his feet, digging into the already sore flesh and leaving him gasping in pain after a few short minutes of running. “I can’t keep this up,” he yelled over the cacophony of birds. “I don’t have any shoes.”

There was no reply, although the girl seemed to increase the pace, tugging him along like a rag doll before they came across a clearing. Finally they slowed to a stop.

“You are a lot stronger than you look,” Stiles noted cheerfully, ignoring the pain racing up and down his legs as the numbness began to bleed away. “Did Miłogost send you?”

“We do not answer to a broken tree.”

Stiles started at her tone. It was cold. Bitter. Not anything like the sweet tone she had greeted him with. “I, uh… Then why-”

“We only helped because you have Klaudia’s blood,” she told him, voice monotonous and dark. “That is all.”

Stiles’ eyes widened in surprise, a rush of _something_ budding in his stomach. “You knew my mother?”

She laughed. “Klaudia protected us from human hands. Does our acquaintance truly surprise you?”

“I…” The boy trailed off, biting his lip. “Thank you,” he said at last, shifting uneasily onto the heels of his feet, drawing the sting of pain further from his toes. “How can-”

“You owe us _nothing_ , spirit killer,” the girl spat suddenly. Her mane of leaves snapped behind her, and in the subtle moonlight Stiles could make out her flat front and the swirl of growing foliage at her feet. “And even if you did, you would have nothing to offer us. We are simply paying off a debt. And now that it is gone we may sleep until your generation has gone. Leave. Now.”

There was a flutter of leaves; the sound of a raindrop; a swirl of wind in his ears.

The nymph was gone.

In the distance, there came the familiar chirp of a bird as the forest once again grew silent.

…

“That can’t be it,” Peter argued, leaning away from his now empty plate with a grimace. “If Stiles is possessed, it won’t just be sleepwalking.”

“But that’s all that’s been going on,” Laura insisted, arms wrapped around one arm as she stared at her uncle from her own seat. “If something is possessing him, it’s been dormant for so long it probably doesn’t know what to do.”

“Kitsune are smarter than that, Laura, and you know it. Think about it. You say his shoes were in the Argent’s house, and that he was missing for two days shortly after.”

The woman shrugged noncommittally. “Well, yeah. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“When a missing person is found isn’t their face all over the news for a while?”

“So what? It wants him famous?”

“It wants him _noticed_ ,” Peter corrected, voice low. “You said he killed a Nocnitsa. In the eyes of a spirit he’s just as bad as a Hunter. Now, imagine how the actual Hunters would react upon learning there’s a dangerous supernatural element hanging around. It wouldn’t take much for them to think he’s a Vampire or a Wendigo. One thing leads to another, the Hunters track him down, the Hunters kill him, then Hunters then learn he was human and now they have the entire Beacon Hills Police Department on their asses for murder. Two birds, one stone.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” the woman snapped. “This Kitsune stuff is _bullshit_. We don’t even have any proof.”

“It makes sense,” Derek muttered, stepping out of the shadows to join them beneath the light of the ceiling lamp. “Stiles mentioned something about running into the Hunters in the woods, and the Leszy helping him out.”

“And when did you learn this? Before or after you became lap buddies?”

“Children,” Peter snapped, patience wearing thin. “There is a very simple way of determining whether or not he is possessed.”

Laura rolled her eyes.

Derek’s narrowed. “How?”

The older man grinned. “We talk to him, of course.”

…

It felt like hours before Stiles broke out of the trees, coming up to the side of the road where the moonlight fell unhindered onto the smooth pavement. Stiles stepped onto it with a grin. His hands shot up in the air, and he cried out in joy. “Yes!” he shouted, celebrating mindlessly.

Fluttering up to him, the small bird circled his head to get his attention before flapping off down the road.

“You taking me all the way home, little guy?” Stiles asked, staring after it breathlessly. Jogging after the bird, he couldn’t help the giddy smile that overtook his mouth. He limped at it almost gleefully, following it up the road that curved through the forest and stretched into eternity.

…

Five phone calls later, Stiles was still not picking up his phone.

As Laura dialed for the sixth time, putting her phone on speaker and slapping it angrily on the tabletop, Peter turned to his nephew with a skeptical expression. “How sure are you that this kid is possessed?”

“Deaton said something about it being passed through his family, and that he might have gotten it from his mother when she passed away,” Derek informed him quietly. “So I’m pretty sure.”

“His mother?”

“Yeah,” Laura agreed quietly. “Dora. Sheryl. Something.”

“Claudia,” Derek hissed, annoyed.

“That’s the one.”

Peter frowned. “Claudia… as in Stilinski? This brat is _Claudia Stilinski’s_ son?”

Derek nodded. “Apparently. Did you know her?”

“I knew _of_ her,” the older man corrected, sighing tiredly. “She was a friend of sorts to some spirits; worked for the town as a forest ranger. Worked very closely with the trees before her death.” He paused to take a slow, deep breath. “I didn’t know she was possessed.”

“ _You’ve reached Stiles’ phone. Unfortunately he’s having technical difficulties at the moment and can’t answer. Leave a message after the beep._ ”

Laura sighed as her phone beeped, then snatched it from the table. “Stiles, pick up your phone. I need to talk to you,” she snapped before pressing the button to end the call. After a few seconds the screen went dark and she shoved it in her pocket. “Well, for now that seems to be a dead end.” Just as she said it, her phone blared into life, beeping and whistling. She scrambled after it, digging it out with a grimace. “What the hell?”

“Who is it?” Derek asked, curious.

“It just says ‘Beacon Hills,’” she told him, squinting skeptically at the number.

“Pay phone?” the younger man suggested.

“No. It would say as much.”

Peter sighed. “Just answer it and don’t say anything.”

Glancing up at her uncle, Laura nodded and received the call, placing it on speaker.

Static.

“ _Hello?_ ”

“Stiles?” Derek gasped, stepping closer.

Peter’s expression narrowed.

“ _Oh thank god. Look, I’m at a gas station off Jones and 2nd. Could you come pick me up? I’m kind of stranded._ ”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” the man promised, wringing his hands nervously. “Anything else?”

“ _Uh, yeah. Mind bringing a first aid kit, a slice of bread, and maybe some clothes?_ ”

“Got it. Be there soon.” Snatching the phone out of Laura’s hand, Derek ended the call before tossing it back and running up the stairs towards his room.

“Just a question,” Peter asked, catching the woman’s attention as his nephew jogged up the stairs. “How old is Stiles?”

“Sixteen,” Laura answered honestly. “Why?”

The man frowned. “You never mentioned he was a _child_.”

She rolled her eyes. “How old do you think Derek and I were when everyone died?” she asked. Before Peter could answer, however, she sashayed into the kitchen and began to rustle around the fridge.

“Believe it or not,” Derek began, jogging down the last of the stairs with a duffle bag over his shoulder, looking Peter in the eye, “she really doesn’t like Stiles right now.”

…

“Why is it whenever I call Laura you’re the one to pick up?” Stiles teased as Derek strode up to the gas station, duffle in hand.

The man frowned at the state of the boy before him. From his torn jeans, the dirt smeared across his arms and legs, and the blood caking the bottoms of his feet. Despite all this, his eyes were drawn to the rustling feathers on the boy’s shoulder. “What’s with the bird?”

“Oh, this little guy?” the boy happily asked, turning his head to look at the grey jay. “He led me here. I promised him some bread. I think that’s why he’s still around.”

Derek frowned, then pulled the small baggie with a single slice of white bread from his pocket. “You’re kidding, right?” he asked even as he retrieved it. He handed it over, almost wincing at the sight of deep, clotted scratches across the boy’s hands.

Stiles took the slice gratefully, then crumbled a corner it into pieces and tossed it to the ground. The bird was on the crumbs in a second, pecking unsteadily at them as it perched awkwardly on the asphalt.

Watching the exchange with a mixture of surprise and exasperation, Derek settled beside Stiles and watched the bird eat. “What happened?” he found himself inquiring at last, glancing over at the boy.

“I don’t really know,” Stiles admitted quietly. “On minute I’m crawling into bed, the next I know I’m in the middle of the woods, the sun’s going down, and Miłogost is telling me to run.”

“From what?”

“Hunters.”

Derek blew out a breath. “Sounds like a pretty shitty day.”

“The worst.”

“I dunno. Pretty sure you’ve had worse before,” he joked. “I mean, you _did_ go missing that one time.”

“You’d think that,” Stiles laughed bitterly. “You really, really would, but before I got my ass caught up in the woods, Danny yelled at me for not replying to his calls or texts. Told me it’s hard to make things work when I’m always running off.”

“Hey.” Derek settled his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, turning him slightly to meet his eyes. They sat there for a second, weight settling firmly in their stomachs, as a soft breeze passed through the parking lot. “Are you okay?”

Stiles shook his head and turned back to the bird. “No,” he replied just as quietly. “I’m not okay.”

Letting go of the boy’s shoulder, Derek turned back to stare at the crumbs. “Are you guys gonna talk it out at least?”

“Probably not.”

“Why not? You know where he lives.” The man motioned towards the car with his hand. “Why not go over and-”

“Derek, we _broke up_.”

Derek’s jaw went loose for all of a second before he pulled himself together, clearing his throat. “Oh.”

“Yeah. _Oh_ ,” the boy parrotted. Finishing off the last of the bread that had been thrown, the bird took to the air and flew away. Stiles watched it, expression solemn.

“Why didn’t you call Scott?”

Jumping, the younger teen turned to look at the man, confusion plain on his face. “What?”

“To pick you up. You called Laura instead of Scott,” Derek clarified. “Is there a reason for that?”

The boy scoffed. “Duh. Scott doesn’t have a car.”

“And why didn’t you call your dad?”

Stiles shrugged. “He’s asleep.”

Derek blinked, then smiled softly. Throwing his arm over Stiles’ shoulder, he stood quickly, dragging the younger teen with him. “Come on,” he told him quietly, snatching up the duffel. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Stiles sighed, allowing himself to be led to the camaro. It wasn’t until he slid into the passenger seat that he realized his clothes were oddly… dry. He glanced at the sky, realizing suddenly that some time between falling into bed and rising up against his will, the rain had stopped. “Today could have been a lot worse,” he realized out loud.

Glancing over, the werewolf smiled softly. He decided not to comment.


	15. A Midsummer Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to CloveeD and StalkerOfDoom for editing and cheerleading.

When the sun shone down brilliant and strong, throwing Beacon Hills into a gentle Summer, the pack’s lives began to edge away from monotonous silence into something resembling movement.

Stiles tapped his foot, turned it sideways, and squinted.

“So that’s what you’ve been complaining about for the last month. It finally healed, did it?” Erica asked, coming up behind the boy on the couch. She stared at the scar that curled around the boy’s heel, much like a particularly large, unusually dehydrated worm had wiggled itself onto the ball of his foot before dying a quiet, meaningless death. The girl frowned, eyeing it critically. “And you got this sleepwalking?”

“And now I wear shoes to bed,” he replied bitterly.

“I was wondering what that smell was,” Laura sniped, drawing into the room with a grin. She pointed at his foot with one long, freshly manicured nail, leaning over the back of the couch along with her beta. “That looks like an asshole, I hope you know.”

“Thanks,” Stiles snapped. “You’re so incredibly helpful and supporting. Thank you for that inspiring observation.”

“Calm the fuck down, ass-foot. What, you sleepwalk two miles a month and suddenly your life is a wreck? Admit it – you’re getting used to it.” Grinning manicly, the woman leaned into his space and prodded the scar. “You’re our personal wind-up bunny.”

The boy jerked away with a squeak holding his foot protectively. “Don’t _do_ that!”

“What? Don’t want a girl anywhere near your asshole?” she giggled, rising back onto the balls of her feet before striding purposely into the kitchen.

“You-”

“I could help you with that, if you like,” Erica offered quietly. “All I’d need is your wrist-”

“Oh, god, Erica, you can’t even give the bite. You’re a beta,” Stiles groaned.

“Hey, ass-foot, catch!” Laura shouted, tossing the boy a chilled bottle of water.

He fumbled for it, nearly taking it in the face before he dropped it to the adjacent couch cushion. “That is not becoming a thing!” the boy demanded just as a steady thump, thump, thump announced Derek as he strolled casually down the stairs and into the living room. Stiles’ eyes laid on him, crinkling into a smile as their gazes met. The all familiar tumbles and cartwheels in his stomach made an appearance, whirling through him like it was all they could do in the man’s presence; a sensation Stiles had gotten used to over the last few months.

At least, to an extent.

Derek’s return smile was almost sheepish. “Morning,” he greeted.

“Morning,” Stiles breathed back.

Erica snorted.

Stiles threw her a dirty look.

“So, Peter got back in touch with me,” Derek announced, snapping everyone’s attention towards him. “Although I was kind of hoping to wait until Scott got here before saying anything more specific.”

“Scott has Summer School today,” Stiles pointed out. “It could be hours.”

“Then we wait hours,” the man replied easily, circumnavigating the couch. He paused for a moment, moving the water bottle onto the coffee table before taking a seat.

Out of habit, Stiles fell to the side and rest his head on the older man’s lap.

Erica snorted, but had the decency to remain silent.

After a few long minutes of combing through Stiles’ hair, and long after Laura and Erica had retreated from the room, Derek motioned with one hand toward Stiles’ bare foot. “May I?” he asked.

Stiles blinked before slowly rolling to the side, arms sliding down to push him off the couch as the cushion groaned in protest. He drew his knees up with a sheepish grin. “I’m just warning you now,” he told the man in all fairness, “I’m really ticklish.”

“I’m aware,” the man teased, eyes practically glittering with mirth.

The boy hesitated for a short while before leaning back and placing his feet on the man’s lap. He tried not to focus on the swell of his thighs or the pleasant scratchy texture of his jeans.

At least he tried.

Snatching up the foot, Derek observed the scar with steady hands and sharp eyes. “It’s a lot pinker than most scars,” he pointed out. “And this part-” he tapped the front of his foot, where a splotch of darker skin stretched from his toe to the middle of his foot in a thick line, “- is purple. Do scars usually do that?”

“Dude, my foot was infected off and on for what? Three months?” Stiles pointed out, raising an eyebrow. “No, it doesn’t look normal.”

Derek hummed deep in his throat, but didn’t comment further, dragging his thumb across the arch of Stiles’ foot. Honestly; it was his own fault it snapped up on reflex and nailed him in the face.

“Shit,” he hissed, snatching his newly aching foot back with a grimace. “Sorry, but I told you I was ticklish!”

The older man smirked. “You did,” he replied with an amused sort of glint in his eye, unphased by the smack to the nose. He gave one last chuckle, then rose to his feet. “Feel like eating anything? It’s nearly noon.”

“Pancakes?” Stiles asked hopefully, mouth nearly hanging open at the thought.

Derek turned to him, expression dry. He pinched his nose. “Not pancakes,” he drawled. “Anything but pancakes.”

…

Wind echoed through the halls. The furnace hummed beneath sneakered feet. Water gurgled through the walls.

Scott didn’t really know what to do with the knowledge of what the school sounded like with only forty people in it. It was… strange.

“McCall,” Finstock snapped, snatching his attention back to the front of the room. “Care to enlighten the class on who Oedipus was?”

The boy’s jaw dropped open, and he fumbled for his words for a long second before stuttering out, “A… book character?” There were sniggers all around him, and he flushed. “He was a… A greek King. In mythology. They prophesied he would kill his father and marry his mother, so they sent him away. But he ended up-” He was cut off as the timer at the front of the class dinged. Right on cue, the other students rose from their seats. Scott moved to join them, but stopped in his tracks as he was called.

“McCall – get over here,” Finstock demanded, rising  awkwardly from his desk. His chair squeaked as it slid back, brushing against the edge of the white board.

Pursing his lips, Scott internally prayed it he wasn’t in trouble. “Yes, coach?” he asked, turning on his heel to face the man. His steps seemed to play deeper than they should have in his ears, thunking heavily against the floor like drums. As he settled before the man, he swallowed.

Finstock scoffed. “Don’t give me that look,” he scoffed. “I just wanted to tell you that I’ve looked at your file. Your academic records and stuff. And kid? Whatever you’ve been doing in the last year…” He laughed.

The boy flinched as the man slapped a hand on his shoulder and leaned forward to look him in the eye. Sudden dread filled him, rolling his stomach in knots and jumping around his head.

Grinning a bit manically, the man’s eyes widened as he finished for the student a touch too enthusiastically, “keep doing it.”

Scott blinked, managed a stuttered, “Yes, Coach,” before he wobbled from the room. It almost felt like he was on stilts, stumbling from foot to foot in an attempt to keep his balance. But before too long he was stepping out of the school and into the parking lot. He reached into his pocket, retrieving his phone with a sigh and a shake of his head. He dialed Stiles number on instinct, pressing it to the side of his head.

It rang once.

It rang twice.

_“Dude, what’s up? You out of prison?”_

“Yeah, just got out,” Scott replied evenly. “You’re at Laura’s, right?”

Stiles scoffed. _“Yup. Everyone is.”_

“I’ll head on over, then.”

_“See you when you get here!”_

Hanging up, Scott jogged over to his bike.

…

Stiles ended the call with a grin before shoving his phone back in his pocket. “He’s on his way,” he told the man above him cheerily.

Dragging a hand through the boy’s hair, Derek chuckled. “I know,” he told him quietly.

“You know, sometimes I wish you would pretend you don’t have super-wolfy powers. It would be nice.”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be me.”

Stiles laughed, nodding agreement as his mouth fell open.

Then their eyes locked.

It was like flipping a switch. Stiles’ gaze seemed to hone in on Derek’s face; admiring the freshly shaven jaw and his eyes. Heterochroma, he thought to himself, looking into them almost in awe. “It’s like an eclipse.”

Derek seemed to startle at this, eyebrows furrowing together as he stared down at the boy. “What?”

Stiles blinked, realizing he had spoken out loud. “Uh…” He cleared his throat. “Your, uh… Your eyes,” he explained as his face began to flush, not quite believing what he was saying. “Like, it’s really brownish-red around the pupil, and around that it’s green, and around that it’s blue. Kind of like looking at an eclipse in the middle of a bunch of trees… or something.” He shrugged, attempting to play it off as some sort of _I was staring into your eyes for science_ thing. “You know. That.”

Suddenly, the man jumped to his feet, nearly throwing Stiles off the couch entirely. But before he could protest, Laura and Erica strode in.

“Now that’s Scott’s on his way, think you could share with the group?” the older woman asked, tapping her newly manicured bare foot against the hardwood floor.

…

It was late in the afternoon that Scott arrived, pulling up to the house on his bike. He carefully set it against the side of the porch before he bounded up the steps, knocking politely on the open front door before peeking his head through. “Anybody home?” he called.

A short moment passed before Laura shouted from the basement, _“Down here. Come on in!”_

Scott made his way to the basement steps. As he walked down the first few, he grimaced. They squeaked ominously beneath his feet; an off-brown that was hard even for him to see in the dark. “Why aren’t the lights on?” he asked, He took a moment to close his eyes, calling his wolf to the surface and feeling it rise within him. When he next opened his eyes he saw the steps plain as day, and he closed the basement door with a sigh, blocking out the last of the light. But as he got to the base of the stairs, his eyes locked on something blinding and strong. He tumbled back, grabbing at the railing with a cry.

“You okay?” It was Stiles’ voice.

“Yeah, fine,” Scott replied, squinting through the dark. He glanced up and swallowed hard. “What-”

“Wolves only, Stiles,” Laura announced suddenly. “Go home.”

The boy whined. “What the hell?”

“Just go, Stiles,” she snaps, pointing to the stairs, not that Stiles could see them.

Grumbling angrily, the boy felt around the walls until he found the railing. Scott jumped out of the way, watching the blur of light that was his _friend_ stomp up the stairs, yank the door open, and slam it shut behind him.

“That-”

“The Kitsune is becoming a physical presence,” Derek informed him quietly. “We don’t know exactly what it is, yet, but it’s big and it’s old.”

“Kitsune?” Scott gaped. “What’s going on?”

“Stiles is possessed,” Laura admitted, and a heavy silence fell over the room. “We weren’t sure at first, but this proves it. He’s probably been possessed for years. Now that it’s waking up we can see its power surrounding him. It’s faint – very faint – but it’s there.”

Scott glanced to Erica, looking for confirmation.

The girl threw her hands up with a dry smile. “Don’t look at me. I probably know less than you do.”

…

Climbing into the Jeep, Stiles snapped the door closed behind him with an angry huff, only to scream as it caught his ankle. “Fucking…” he gasped, cradling it in careful yet furious hands. “Stupid,” he continued, reaching for his keys. “Day!” he hissed finally, dragging them home and closing the door with a bitter cry of triumph. Before he went anywhere, though, he grabbed at his pant leg and pulled it up, observing the sides of his leg carefully. It throbbed a bit, but other than that was mostly fine.

He pulled out of the driveway, guiding the Jeep into a turn to face the road. Overhead, the sky grumbled.

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” he groaned, only for the heavens to open up above him and pour mercilessly down. “Last year was a drought warning, so I guess this is good,” he muttered. He made the turn, attention on the road until he noticed a smudge of brown in the corner of his eye. Turning slightly to see, he jumped. His arm jerked as if on instinct, nearly throwing him into a tree before he corrected the vehicle, straightening it out to follow the lines of the road. “Listen to me when I say I am not in the mood right now,” Stiles snapped.

The Lady Midday looked at him curiously, eyes wide and innocent even as she told him in a disappointed tone, “You haven’t been stopping by the field.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been kind of busy lately.”

“But there’s no one else I can talk to.”

Stiles didn’t bother replying, too busy eyeing the large puddle at the side of the road. For a long second he worried that it might be a pothole, and he slowed a bit until he could glance behind him. He swerved around the puddle just to be safe, hands unsteady against the wheel. Steadily, they began to shake. He glanced at them three times before he grimaced and pulled over to the side of the road. The Jeep was put in park; his hands were shoved in the pockets of his hoodie; he turned to the Lady Midday with a drawn grin and a click of his tongue. “Fine,” he drawled. “Ask away.”

The girl’s eyes seemed to sparkle as she asked, “Where does a town store its water?”

…

Scott blinked his eyes, still attempting to clear the spots from his vision after his friend had left the room. “Why did you make Stiles leave?” he asked. “You never make Stiles leave.”

“Stiles is a wildcard right now,” Laura told him forcefully. “We can’t make major decisions with him nearby.”

“Why? Because he’s possessed?”

“If you have to know, yes.”

“But if he’s been possessed for years then why does it only matter now?”

“Because,” Derek interjected, “we talked to it.”

Scott gaped. “What?”

“Yeah, we did,” Laura drawled. “And you know what we learned? That apparently this assumption that we’ve been working under that Kitsune can’t possess or be men is complete and total bullshit. In fact, almost nothing we know about them is even vaguely correct. Heck, we’ve been pronouncing it wrong this entire time! Whatever is happening to Stiles right now is exactly what happens when they possess someone. No deviations from the script except this one’s an ass.”

“We don’t know what kind of Kitsune is possessing him, either,” Derek added quietly. “At first we thought it was a Nogitsune, but apparently it isn’t. Right now Stiles is a wild card. One we can’t afford with the hunters in town.”

Scott sighed, glancing from Erica, to Derek, and finally to Laura. “Then what do we do?”

Laura scoffs. “We get it out of him.”

…

Blanket. Turn. Window. Up. Dresser.

Watching himself fall out of bed, Stiles felt his body lurch as he nearly fell to the floor.

Except he didn’t feel any pain.

And he wasn’t actually moving.

“Oh,” a voice murmured, so close it was practically in his head. “You’re awake.”

Stiles felt the beginnings of panic begin to settle as he realized it was his. It was his voice speaking.

“Don’t worry – we’re not going into the woods today,” the Kitsune whispered, all condescension and faux sweetness. “As it turns out, I have a new location in mind. I hope it isn’t an inconvenience.”

It’s an inconvenience, Stiles wanted to scream, waving imaginary arms wide and fast. It is very much an inconvenience. What the hell is going on?

“Thanks so much for the body, by the way,” the thing inside him continued, saccharine. “It’s been generations since one of your line was so emotionally unstable.”

Then it started laughing. Quietly, and without much weight behind it, but it laughed anyway.

Stiles watched from a back seat perspective as his body rose to its feet and practically skipped down the stairs.

In the kitchen, the Sheriff eyed him curiously. “Stiles? What are you still doing up?”

Turning to face him, the thing inside Stiles shrugged. “Feeling up to a walk.”

“Really?” The Sheriff huffed. “You look exhausted.”

“Can’t sleep,” it replied easily, turning to the man with a thin smile. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Stay safe.”

“I will.”

Out into the living room he went, walking steadily to the front door before settling a hand against the lock. Within seconds he was outside. The door was closed. The thing chuckled.

“This is the first time you’ve ever been so awake,” he noted. “I’m going to have to warn you away from such things in the future, though. It’s not healthy for the brain to have two people in there at once.”

They walked for a long while, utterly silent towards one another, until they arrived near the center of town. Above them was the water tower, large and silent beneath the light of the moon. “For months I was looking for the river,” it mumbled, dragging its hand along the cool metal of one of he supports. “All the while, there was a much simpler solution nearby.”

In his pocket, his phone began to jingle.

“Someone noticed you’re missing,” the Kitsune sing-songed. “Not for long, though. This won’t take much more than a few minutes.” With this it started up the ladder, climbing up to the landing around the town’s water supply before placing Stiles’ palms against the cold steel of the tower. Not half a second later it ripped his hands away with a scowl. “Looks like I’m not the first one here.”

…

Under the cover of a light drizzle, Derek stared darkly at the glass door of the Veterinary clinic. The sign glowed faintly beneath the streetlamp, glittering atop a nearby puddle and setting the man’s face into a strange sort of relief.

_Closed._

Dragging his hands out of his pocket, the rustle of leather nearly silent in the night air, Derek knocked three times.

_“We’re closed,”_ Deaton’s voice called from inside just as Scott muttered, _“It’s Derek.”_

Before long, twin pairs of footsteps echoed down a hall, then around a lobby, and finally Scott stared up at Derek, breath fogging against the glass. His fingers fumbled for the lock, twisting the small knob until a series of clicks sounded. Within seconds it was wide open and Scott stared up at him with wide eyes. “Is there something you needed? I hate to sound rude, but we’re seriously busy right now.”

“I need to talk to Deaton,” he told him quickly, glancing around Scott.

The Vet tensed at the words, but ushered Derek in with a hand, leading them all through the barrier in the entryway and into the back room. Around them, cats laid unmoving in cages; the only consistent sound was their unsteady, raspy gasps for breath.

“They’re all…” Derek trailed off, glancing from cage to cage. For a moment he strained to hear their faint heartbeats.

“They all have the same virus,” Deaton confirmed quietly. “The dogs, too.”

Turning to the dark-skinned man, Derek’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “When did they come in?”

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that,” he replied. “Doctor-Patient confidentiality, you understand. Now – what do you have to ask me?”

Glancing over to Scott, Derek motioned with his head toward the door.

“You know I’ll still be able to hear you, right?” the boy asked.

Derek motioned again.

When the teen left, the door falling shut with a hollow click, he turned to Deaton with a frown. “I was wondering if you might know of something that could delay a Kitsune from…”

“Killing its host?” Deaton suggested slowly, earning a sharp flinch.

“Yes.”

The older man hummed, hands settling atop the operating table. “Nothing in my stores. I’ve heard rumors of a Fireflower in the forest, though.”

Derek gaped. “A Fireflower?”

“Yes,” he answered quietly. “Stiles’ mother actually told me of it, before she passed. Her spirit friend suggested it.”

The werewolf frowned, leaning forward onto the table. “Can something that powerful really be in Beacon Hills?”

“Well, seeing as tomorrow is the Eve of Kupala, the only night a year that the Fireflower blooms, I suggest you find out quickly.”

…

Stiles woke to the sound of creaking wood and the slide of his window opening and immediately grabbed his bat, swinging wildly at the figure sliding into his room from what is very much not the door. The body hit the ground with a low-pitched grunt before Stiles turned on his light.

And groaned.

“Fucking hell,” Derek hissed.

“Well, that’s what you get for sneaking into people’s windows in the middle of the night,” Stiles scolded. “Who the hell else sneaks through other people’s windows at night? Rapists and murderers, that’s who. Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“You didn’t pick up your phone.”

Stiles’ eyebrow rose. “What?”

Rising unsteadily to his feet, the man leveled him with a grimace. “Laura asked me to ask you to ask the Leszy for help.”

“That’s a lot of asking.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”

“So… what?” Stiles drawls, settling back against his bed. He dropped the bat to the floor, aluminum thumping hollowly against the carpet. “You come over and wake me up? Ask me for a favor you could very well have asked me to do during the day?”

The man has the gall to look sheepish.

The boy groaned, hands slapping against his forehead. “Oh my god. Did that honestly not occur to you?”

“It’s Laura’s orders,” Derek offers bleakly.

“Yeah,” Stiles snaps. “And what Laura says goes. I get it.”

They settled into silence; something that was growing unusually common and increasingly obvious as summer vacation wore on. A steadily shrinking gap between them. And though they hadn’t moved, weren’t any closer to each other than before they’d been when the silence began, it was as if any second the space between them would snap.

It was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.

…

Rosco seemed especially loud that day, engine whining and creaking beneath its hood as it careened through town at twenty-five miles per hour. Above, the sky was dark with clouds, threatening a torrent with each gust of wind that rattled the canvas top of the Jeep.

Glancing over to the man in the passenger seat, Stiles tapped his fingers nervously along the steering wheel before turning his attention back to the road. His foot eased onto the break as they approached a stop sign, steadily pressing down on the clutch and shifting into first as he glanced left and right once, twice, three times. Leaning forward, he peered carefully around the curve of the road before falling back into his seat.

“There’s no one coming,” Derek informed him dryly. “You can go.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed half-heartedly, letting go of the break and easing onto the gas. As he felt the gears grab he slowly let out the clutch.

They continued down the road in utter silence, neither making any attempt to reach for the radio. It wasn’t until the car drew to a stop before a red light that either of them spoke. There were no cars in sight, roads empty as what little light managed to shine from the flickering street lamp bounced off the roof of the car and into Stiles’ eyes. The sky opened up, releasing a furious torrent of rain.

Tossing his gaze from the street to the boy at his side, Derek licked his lips and asked, “Crazy weather we’ve been having, huh?”

Stiles laughed.

The light turned green and off Roscoe went.

Derek scowled. “How is that funny?”

“Did you just make small talk?” he gaped, perplexed. “What has the world come to? Derek Hale himself, sneaking in through windows and making small talk. What would the god of leather jackets and moodiness say if they could see you now?”

“Leather jackets and-”

“Moodiness,” he parroted glibly, much to the older man’s disappointment. “On the upside, whoever is in charge of social shit is giving you an A+ right now. Big, fat one. The kind on the top of a really long paper that you put a lot of effort into. Red sharpie and everything.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Stop kidding around.”

“No, I’m serious,” Stiles insists, entirely sincere. “When I first met you the first thing you said to me was… Well, I don’t remember exactly what you said-”

“I called you a little snot,” the man provided sharply, gaze fixed pointedly on the trees flashing by them outside the window. “And then I slammed your face into the steering wheel.”

“See? That’s what I’m talking about. Progress. You’re making a lot and it’s kind of adorable.”

Derek snorted, leaning a bit more heavily against the door. “Great. So, I’m adorable now?”

Stiles nodded eagerly, glancing briefly to his passenger, then back to the road with a wide grin. “Yeah. In a hot sorta way.”

Derek’s head shot around.

Stiles’ grin fell.

Silence ensconced the car once more, broken only by Derek’s sudden insistence of, “You’re swerving.”

The boy gasped, dragging the steering wheel sharply to the right to pull out of the opposing lane, forehead sharp with beads of sweat. When they were once more on the right side of the road, he bit his lip. Glancing toward the man in the passenger seat, he opened his mouth, shut it, and turned his face forward. “I didn’t mean that,” he amended.

“Yes, you did,” Derek announced, tone leaving no room for argument.

Stiles pursed his lips. “Yeah, well, so what? You’re hot. Do you really need it said to you every day?”

Above them, thunder rumbled.

“You’ve got, like, perfect facial hair all the time,” he continued against his own judgement. “You’re built like a barn and your eyes are the stupidest thing to ever pretty, I swear to god. Then there’s your hands and your thighs and- stop me any time, by the way. Even your vanity has to have limits.”

They came upon another red light and began to slow.

By the time they come to a full stop, Derek is staring at him, jaw unhinged as he stared at the boy with open shock, a flush plain across his face.

Nervously turning his attention out of his window, Stiles grumbles, “Don’t look at me like that. You must get this all the time.”

Outside, the rain fell. A crow called in the distance. And between them the air grew heavy with Stiles’ admission.

The boy opened his mouth again, as if working himself up to retract everything he’d just said. Though it could have been a joke. Maybe even another confession. But instead his mouth slipped closed, teeth clicking audibly in spite of the white noise of the rain pounding against the canvas roof.

Slouching further back into the curve of his seat, Derek murmured, “Light’s green.”

“Yeah,” Stiles whispered weakly, turning his eyes back to the road before them, stepping lightly on the gas and releasing the clutch as he felt the gears catch, smoothly accelerating down the slick road beneath flickering street lamps and an invisible moon. He shifted into second gear, just the way his father taught him, and only when he’d shifted into third and they were cruising toward the preserve at thirty miles an hour did he allow himself to reach for the radio.

Derek didn’t stop him.

…

Twenty minutes passed, and Stiles pulled into the preserve’s parking lot with an open grimace. The engine sputtered one last time before growing silent as he removed the key, dropping it into the pocket of his hoodie and settling his hand on the middle console. As the radio died, the words, “I want to see, I want to say Hello,” echo faintly from the speakers.

The rain, seconds before a pleasant white-noise, rose to near-deafening in the sudden silence.

“So, what am I here for again?”

“Ask him about the Fireflower,” Derek reminded him quietly. “If he knows of one nearby.”

“Got it,” Stiles managed quietly, reaching for the door. But just as his fingers brushed against the chrome handle there was the faintest of pressure’s against his shoulder. He turned, eyes wide, to face the man in the passenger seat. “Yes?”

For all of a second the man seemed distracted, almost lost. But the moment passed quickly, and his face returned to the blank expression Stiles had grown so used to. “Be careful,” he warned, voice hardly louder than a whisper.

“Oh, come on, Derek. I can navigate this place in my sleep,” the boy teased, earning a dark look. “Okay, bad joke. Still, it’s true. Nothing’s killed me yet.”

“Just…” He trailed off, and once again a silence settled between them; heavy and nearly suffocating.

Scrambling for the handle, Stiles fell out of the car with a wail. He shot to his feet. “I’m good,” he announced proudly, knees smeared with mud from scraping the pavement. “Good.” The boy slammed the door shut, propping his hood up against the rain and jogging into the tree line.

Behind him, Derek sighed.

Stiles tromped through undergrowth and tree roots as he made his way into the forest, remaining as close to the wide redwood trunks as he could as rain fell in heavy drops between them. It wasn’t long before he was soaked. Wasn’t long before he got entirely turned around. And finally, when he found a small, gnarled tree with a dry base, he took a seat and shouted, “Hey, Miłogost!”

His voice echoed through the trees, muffled by the torrent of the rain. Before the boy could raise his hands to his mouth and shout again, the spirit arrived as a smudge of red in the tree above him.

“You shouldn’t shout,” the Leszy scolded, eyes trained on the gaps between the trees. “There are hunters about, today.”

“And are they headed this way?”

Turning his attention away from the foliage, Miłogost slips to the ground, staring up at Stiles with a smug smile. “For now, at least, we have not drawn their eye,” he caroled. He appeared smaller than usual. Instead of drawing even with Stiles’ height he was hardly taller than four feet, scarf wrapped repeatedly around his face and head. “You have a question.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, biting his lip as Derek’s words floated through his head. The hand on his shoulder… “We’re looking for a Fireflower. Do you know of any? And where we might find it?”

Miłogost chuckled. “You’ve already seen one.”

Stiles frowned. “What?”

“We leszys have longer memories than humans,” he murmured, eyes turning back to the gaps between the trees. “Something about the lack of the distinctly human detritus in our lives. We can remember things like wars. Plaques. Hunters. Even little boys running through the woods. We can remember trapping them in a labyrinth and sending them off towards a little glowing flower.”

The boy stared. “Where are you going with this?”

“And that boy, not knowing what he could have possibly stumbled upon, runs away from that little flower and instead makes his way to his friend, lying in a ditch and bitten by a werewolf.”

“... So this is about me?”

“Come back tomorrow evening with your friends,” Miłogost replies instead, turning back to face the teen with a mischievous grin. “Somewhere in this forest it will bloom at midnight. But be warned; the Eve of Kupala is a popular night for hunters to scour wooded areas.”

“So, like… Tomorrow. There’s going to be one here?”

The leszy nodded. “Yes. Are there any other questions you would like to ask? We have a few more minutes.”

“Uh…” Stiles paused, staring down at the tree-man with wide eyes before it occurred to him to ask, “Do you know what’s making me sleepwalk?”

“It is the same thing that made your mother sleepwalk,” he replied cooly, somewhat confused.

A led weight dropped into the boy’s stomach, spawning a wave of nausea that bubbled in his throat. “That same as mom?”

“Yes. There is a spirit in your head that sleeps and wakes...” He trailed off, taking in the boy’s expression of shock. “You did not know.”

“A spirit?”

Miłogost nodded. “A Kitsune of aquatic origin. It brings rain when you are upset or nervous, wanders in search of water when it is strong enough to possess you. I had thought that was why you sought the Fireflower – to suppress it.”

**Stiles shook his head. “I don’t know why we need it.”**


	16. Eve of Kupala

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Arnaud, Oliver, and CloveeD for their help.

It started as a faint, muffled noise; the steady tread of sneakers on wet grass and the crumbling of leaves beneath the soles of a shoe. Long before Derek saw, he heard Stiles approach with a rustle of fabric and a whisper of breath, muffled by the familiar drizzle that tapped impatiently against the canvas roof. He leaned over, hand settling against the chrome handle of the driver's side door and dragging it toward him. The lock popped open, and as he pushed open the door a scent floated in to the Jeep. Leaves. Fresh rain.

Anxiety.

Stiles was there before too long, climbing in to the neoprene seat with a hollow word of thanks and a wan smile before slamming the door sharply behind him.

Derek watched in silent concern as the boy leaned against the steering wheel, taking long, slow breaths in through his nose and out his mouth. “How’d it go?” His voice was as loud as he could bring himself to make it, hovering somewhere just above the white noise of the rain.

“Fantastic,” Stiles murmured back testily, though his heart didn't stutter. “The Fireflower’s blooming tomorrow night here on the preserve, and all we have to do is wander around and find it. I actually found it last year – accidentally – so it shouldn’t be too hard. Oh, and apparently I’m possessed by a Water Kitsune.”

The man’s eyes hardened at the mention, jaw clenching minutely as the boy continued in a tone that began as joking, but quickly grew hostile.

“And there’s a bunch of different types, and this one had its tails taken from it because some shit went down two hundreds years ago and it started possessing people as a last resort. Apparently it killed Mom, which – I gotta tell you – is really encouraging.” His voice snapped as the last words fought their way out of his mouth, lower lip trembling violently. “Is that why Laura’s sending us to get the Fireflower? To stop it?”

Derek’s eyes averted to the floor of the Jeep, unable to meet the boy’s suddenly insistent gaze. “Laura doesn’t know about this,” he admitted lowly.

“Then why the hell are we here?” the boy requested angrily, voice cracking in his throat. “You guys knew, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he confirmed quietly.

“Yes,” Stiles parroted, leaning forward to brace his arms against the steering wheel with a whole-body sigh.

“Laura didn’t think you should know.”

He scoffed. “Laura doesn’t think a lot of things. What – the pale kid you occasionally babysit turns out to have this thing inside him and you figure I’m gonna go around killing people because I found out I’m possessed? Because that’s fucking bullshit.”

“It wasn’t a priority.”

A small, cynical laugh built from the boy’s stomach. It echoed faintly in the small space, growing until it boomed from seat to seat. “Priority?” he gaped, mouth wide with derision as he turned on his passenger. “To my understanding, this thing drove my mom insane and killed her. Now you’re telling me I have to sit through all that again, but in first person, and it isn’t a priority? You’re a fucking joke, you know that?”

“We were hoping to take care of it in private.”

“Private?” Stiles rolled his eyes. “What? Exorcise me in my sleep?”

Derek shook his head. “Peter has contacts in Bend. They were going to-”

“Take care of it? By what? Kidnapping me? Working some magic? Expel dark creatures from my throat as I lay motionless on a gurney with my hands tied?”

“It’s not like that.”

The boy laughed. “Have you met Peter? ‘Cause I did. For, like, ten seconds. Any contact of his is going to be freaky as all get out.”

“Look, I’m not in charge, okay?” Derek bit out at last. “I didn’t want to keep this from you. If you have a problem, take it up with Laura.”

Much to the man’s displeasure, Stiles sneered. “You know what? I think I will.”

…

The Jeep tore through the gravel driveway of Laura’s rented house, rumbling to a stop in front of the shed before the engine fell silent. Practically kicking his door open, Stiles hopped out of the car and up the front steps toward the front door.

“It’s locked,” Derek informed him dryly, stepping out onto the gravel with a grimace.

The boy tried the door anyway, jiggling it uselessly even as it refused to budge. Rapping his knuckles below the antique knocker that looks three uses away from falling to pieces, Stiles called, “Laura, get your furry ass over here and open the door.”

There was a muffled sort of complaint from inside, and Derek stepped up to the door with a sigh. “She’s telling you to go home and learn how to control where you point your asshole.”

“Laura, if you don’t get your ass out here in thirty seconds I’m going to start screaming about werewolves right here on the porch and pee on your begonias.”

“Those are Nasturtiums,” Derek corrected quietly.

Stiles turned to face him, shoving his hands in his damp hoodie with a roll of his eyes. “Jesus, Derek, I’m not actually going to piss on her garden.”

“Your heart didn’t waver.”

“I’m not actually going to piss on her garden,” he repeated once more, insistent.

“Glad to know you’d rather out us than urinate in public,” the man grunted.

Squealing on its hinges, the door opened wide to reveal Laura standing with legs wide and hands on her hips, clad in a long green bathrobe. Her hair was damp, and curled around her shoulder in a long braid. Her lips had fallen into a grimace. “Get in,” she demanded, stepping to the side of the door to admit them.

Stiles hopped into the foyer, sneakers squeaking wetly against the hardwood floors that groaned at the new addition. Turning on his heel at the base of the stairs, he turned to watch as Derek stepped into the room, closing the door behind him before pausing. Slowly, he glanced behind him, eyes lingering first on Laura, then met his.

“Mind telling me what you and your little boyfriend are up to?” the woman hissed, ignoring the boy entirely.

Feeling rightly snubbed, Stiles began, “We-”

“We went to the Preserve,” Derek interrupted angrily. “To ask the Leszy for advice.”

She rolled her eyes. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Dealing with things you’re too scared to deal with.”

Instantly she flared up, eyebrows furrowing and back snapping straight. “I’m not scared of a stupid little fox.”

“And now you’re lying.”

Stiles watched in avid fascination as they both fell silent, curiosity warring with the anger bubbling beneath his chest. It was a nauseating sensation; billowing from his lungs and building in his throat like mucus. And it was only when the silent stretched until it felt that it might snap when he finally spoke. But instead of the burning fury he’s spoken with on the porch, his voice was small; almost nonexistent in the room that seemed too large for a crowd, let alone three people. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Laura gave him one long look, and for a moment Stiles was convinced she was going to lie. Or tell him it wasn’t a priority. But instead her lips split with angry derision and she spat, “Because I didn’t want you to kill it.”

“So I just wait for it to kill me first?” he whispered. With each word his anger seemed to fade into something sharper. A cold, dark exhaustion that weighed down his arms and head until he could barely keep them up.

“We wait for Peter’s contact,” she replied easily. “Until then, this is on the down low.”

Derek glanced between them, jaw set as he shifted between observing the angry line of Laura’s mouth and the exhaustion in Stiles’ face.

Then, when the silence seemed to have stretched for long enough to make the air led in their lungs, the boy managed a quiet, “Can you take me home? I’m not much up for driving.” Instead of waiting for an answer, he slipped the keys to the Jeep from his pocket, stepping around Laura before dropping them lazily on Derek’s shoulder and wrenching the door open. With the siblings at his back, he stepped out into the rain.

Grabbing the keys, the man made to follow, only to pause as a hand came down on his shoulder.

“Can we talk a moment?” Laura asked, expression grim.

He glanced out to where Stiles was stepping into the car, then turned to her with a shrug. “I guess.”

The woman sighed. “Look, we both know I’m new to this whole Alpha thing-”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Derek assured her quickly. “I get why you’re doing what you are. And I can try to explain it to Stiles, if you want. But you just need to realize that we were all doing just fine until you started to keep secrets you had no right to keep, and then made us keep them, too.”

Tears welled up in Laura’s eyes and a distressed gasp fought from her throat. Derek’s arms were around her in an instant, pulling her into his shoulder where she managed a choked, “I’m never going to be as great as mom.”

For a moment Derek was distracted by the familiar scent in her hair; almonds and soy milk – the kind their mother used – and he felt a sudden wave of longing.“No, you’re not,” he agreed, going over each word as if it hurt. “You don’t have to be her”

She pulled away with a small hiccup, redness already fading from her eyes and cheeks as a single tear tracked its way down her face. Wiping it away quickly, the woman smiled, nodding quickly.

Glancing out the door once more, Derek moved the leave, only to pause. “You need to know Stiles and I are going to look for the Fireflower tomorrow night.”

“I figured.”

“I was hoping we might have some help.”

Laura gave him a long, hard look before shaking her head. “I’m sorry; I can’t do that. If hunters show up…” She trailed off.

Derek nodded slowly. “I understand,” he whispered, then turned to the door. “Back in a bit.”

…

Passenger lurching, tires squealing, Derek guided the Jeep around a sharp corner as protests pierced the air.

“Dude, hey, whoa! Mind slowing the fuck down?” Stiles snapped, hands clutching the oh-shit handle for dear life. “This is a Jeep, not a sports car! You’re going to flip us over!”

“We’re not going to flip over,” Derek deadpanned, not bothering to spare Stiles a glance.

“We aren’t going to flip over.”

“In case you didn’t notice, your werewolf abilities don’t turn a car into a magical sports car that corners like a Ferrari. A Ford Taurus is a Ford Taurus and a Jeep Wrangler is a Jeep Wrangler.”

“Stop complaining. We’re here.”

Stiles opened his mouth to protest, only to glance around confused, realizing they had pulled up in front of his house. “How the f-” The car jerked to a stop, tires scraping angrily against the gravel driveway, pitching the boy into the glove compartment with a wail of surprise.

“Sounds like your dad’s home,” Derek observed quietly, peering around the visor at up at the second story of the house. “You might want to go in soon.”

Recoiling away from the dashboard with a groan, Stiles flopped back in his seat, clutching his forehead with a grimace. “Give a guy some warning.”

“If you hadn’t been leaning forward your seatbelt would have caught you.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” the boy snapped.

A long moment passed, and when Stiles made no move to leave Derek asked, “Are you okay?”

“I would be if you didn’t speed through half the town in, like, thirty seconds.”

“I’m talking about the Kitsune,” he clarified, voice low. Leaning back in his seat, he fixed his eye on the boy, jaw momentarily going slack before he spoke. “I can’t imagine knowing you’re possessed is a good feeling.”

Stiles shook his head hissing out a sigh. “It’s still sinking in.”

“Do you…” Derek paused, clearing his throat.

“What?” Stiles asked when the man made no move to continue.

Looking severely uncomfortable, the werewolf quietly inquired, “Do you want to talk about it?”

The boy’s eyes shot open, and he turned his eyes on his companion with a frown. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“What?”

“Eight months ago Laura implied that I wanted to talk about feelings and you literally booked it out of the house so fast the only part of you leaving I caught were the tires screaming out of the driveway.”

“Well…” He trailed off, lips pursing. His gaze fixed pointedly on the steering wheel. “A lot has changed since then.”

“Yeah, a lot,” Stiles agrees. “AOL bought Huffington post. Food prices went up four percent – Dad’s not happy about that. Osama Bin Laden’s dead. A few days ago the Minnesota Government shut down. Oh – and you talk to me. That’s a thing.” He nodded blandly, head bobbing up and down as the older man stared at him oddly. “Yup. A lot has changed in the last year.”

Derek glanced over from the wheel, eyes trailing over the boy’s face. His mouth opened for a moment, then closed quickly as Stiles continued.

“Scott was bitten by a werewolf – surprise, supernatural stuff exists! I solved a murder. Got over Lydia. Scott and Allison broke up, sort of. And so did I. It’s strange to think Danny and I could ever be over. But, like… at the same time its not? It’s stranger to think we were ever together. It’s hard to focus on anything right now, though, ‘cause all I can think about is the Kitsune.”

“Really?” Derek deadpanned.

“Like, I’m relieved… but I’m not really. And at the same time I am. Like my brain is experiencing technical difficulties. Well, not quite ‘technical,’ but still.” He paused, taking a long, much needed breath before continuing. “I know I should be angry, or sad, or afraid, but the only thing going through my head is, ‘thank god my mom wasn’t crazy.’ Because there actually was something in her head. You know?” Turning to the man in the driver’s seat, Stiles leaned a bit forward, adjusting himself in his seat. There he sat, silent, waiting for a reply.

Derek, utterly lost, said nothing for a long while, mouth closing and opening, before snapping shut once more. He turned his attention to the house, eyes lingering over the second story window before he grabbed at the keys. These were tossed at the boy without ceremony. “Tomorrow,” he mumbled instead. “I’ll pick you up at eleven.”

A short sigh works itself out of Stiles’ mouth, and he nods in approval. “Eleven,” he parrots. His eyebrows drew together in disappointment. His fingers slide over the chrome handle of the door, and he popped it out to let himself out of the Jeep. By the time his father tugged open the front door and Stiles’ sneakered feet were crunching through the gravel, Derek was long gone.

…

When Stiles’ phone trilled the following night it is the only sound to be heard as the boy jerked awake, head lolling on his shoulders as he scrambled to silence it. His fingers found the phone quickly, accepting the call. He pressed it to his ear with a grimace. “H’lo?” the boy grumbled.

On the other end of the line, Derek grunted. “ _Eleven O’clock. Get out here_.”

“Yeah, cool,” Stiles sighed, blinking the sleep from his eyes. “Be right down.”

They ended the call. Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, jeans rustling pleasantly against the cotton sheets, he rose to his feet with a groan. His shoes slapped the hardwood hollowly, and echoed all too loudly through the room. Detouring into his bathroom, he attempted to get a handle on his hair before tossing the comb back in the sink and rolling his eyes. “It’s not a date,” he reminded himself. “You’re going foraging in the woods for a magical flower. It’s going to get messed up anyway.”

He peered into his father’s room – door open and bed empty – before jogging down the stairs.

The television was silent; as was the radio. But beneath the creaking of the refrigerator, the whine of the A/C, and the steady tick, tick, tick of his mother’s cuckoo clock there was a pleasant, comforting hum. It seemed to fill him up; taking up the empty spaces between his head and his toes. Stuffed them with cotton. Stepping out the front door, he closed and left it unlocked behind him. Better to let his father assume he’d sleep-walked out.

In the gravel, beside the Jeep and where the cruiser would be, Derek reclined in the seat of his Camaro. He watched in mild amusement as Stiles loped awkwardly over to the car. He thought of making a comment like “Still waking up?” or “Who filled you with sand?” when the boy all but swung himself into the passenger seat, landing heavily with a long sigh. But instead he says, “Remember; no talking tonight.”

“I know, I know,” Stiles replied lowly. “Hunters.”

Gunning the engine, the older man pulled them into reverse.

…

Shining high above the trees, a bare third of the moon was visible, leaving most of the ground dark. Turning the Camaro into the Preserve parking lot, Derek’s eyes fixed on the small curb as he drew up to it and idling. In the depths of the car the engine whined, complaining vocally about the A/C blasting into the small space.

Derek drew the car to a halt. It idled for a moment before growing silent; the hum of the motor slowing until it gave one last click and quieted. His windows remained up, and for a long second he remained in place, enjoying the peace that came with the scent of worn leather and Stiles’ nervous sweat.

“God, this is going to suck,” the boy whined.

“Stiles’-”

“I know, no talking. But we’re in a car. Do you really think any hunters can hear us?” Stiles paused, staring pointedly at the man in the driver’s seat.

Derek remained silent.

“Exactly. Now, before we step outside, I’d like a chance to complain that it was only sixty-three in Arcata today, but for some reason Beacon Hills is ninety-two. I’m not a werewolf, okay? I’m going to sweat my ass off. In fact, I am going to die.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“Let me have my moment, okay?” Stiles asked just as the man tugged open his door, inviting in a wave of unforgiving heat that billowed into his face. “Shit.”

“Get out.”

…

Sticks snapping beneath his feet, Derek glanced behind him to where Stiles was caught in a bush. “Hurry up,” he growled as low as he could.

“I’m _trying, Jesus_ ,” Stiles snapped back. He gave his leg one last tug, throwing his balance out of commission and dropping himself to the ground.

Rolling his eyes, the werewolf waved halfheartedly with on hand. “I’m going ahead.”

“You’re not – wait a stupid minute, would you?!”

Derek glanced back at the boy for a short moment, taking in his ruffled hair and the leaves and mud smearing his clothes, before smiling softly. He turned back to the trail, hand snapping up to collide with the face of the figure that suddenly stood before him.

It caught his hand easily. Tutting lightly, bark creaking in a long, low groan, it asked, “Now, is that any way to greet someone?”

“We’re in a Labyrinth,” Stiles observed behind them, flashlight sliding from the trees to Derek. “Miłogost?”

“Stiles,” it greeted warmly, stepping around the werewolf, who stared after him in shock.

“What are you doing here?” the boy gaped. “I mean, yeah. Forest. But you said you couldn’t help.”

“That was before Hunters came and spoke of finding it.”

Behind him, Derek stiffened.

Stiles glanced between them, eyes lingering over the taut line of Derek’s jaw and the grim set of Miłogost’s bark. “Okay, I’m missing something. What happens if the Hunters find the Fireflower?”

“It means,” the tree muttered quietly, “that they can kill the entire forest.”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on! It’s a bioluminescent flower. I almost fell on it last year. It’s can’t be that powerful.”

…

When Stiles phone displayed midnight, Miłogost rose to his feet and announced, “It has appeared,” before his eyes slid shut. “If you walk in that direction for five minutes,” he advised, pointing off between two trees, “the flower should disrupt my labyrinth and you’ll be close enough to see it.”

“Are there hunters nearby?” Derek asked.

Stiles jumped, eyes widening comically as he stared at the man.

“Yes,” the tree replied.

“Then we can do better than five minutes.” With this for explanation, he grabs Stiles’ arm and throws it over his shoulder, hoisting the boy into his arms without so much as a grunt of effort before sprinting off between the trees.

In his arms, Stiles bobs lightly with each step, flush permanently etched into his face and far too surprised to protest. Derek is warm; too warm to be pressed against in the middle of a night as hot as it was. But it was tolerable with the wind rushing around them and the strong arms cradling his body.

…

It wasn’t long before the impossible mess of trees gave way to the hooting of owls and the whisper of crickets. To a faint glimmer of light between the trees in the distance.

To the holler of Hunters announcing, “I’ve found it!”

Stiles turned out his flashlight.

“I’ll divert their attention,” Derek suggested quietly, eyes fixed on the steady glimmer of light. “You get the Fireflower and meet me back at the Camaro.”

“Uh…” The boy gulped. “Yeah. Good plan.”

Nodding once, the older man took off, leaves flying beneath his feet as he booked it to their left, head low and claws extended.

Fixing his eyes on the Fireflower, Stiles snuck forward, grimacing with each twig that snapped and leaf that crumpled beneath his sneakers. It seemed like an eternity had passed when he reached it, attempting to ignore the shouts of conflict in the distance, and the firing of a gun.

In a small nest of ferns, the flower shone steadily with a yellow inner glow, petals lined with dots of red and orange. Stiles grinned. “That’s so cute. You have freckles.” He glanced toward the conflict for a moment before leaning forward to pinch the base of the flower. It snapped off easily in his fingers. Almost too easily, he thought suspiciously to himself before he realized…

The flower was still glowing.

He was now a very visible target.

Stuffing the flower beneath his shirt, he gasped at the sensation that flooded his stomach, filling his head and toes and fingers and chest with a strange, crackling energy. Gone was the ever-present tiredness he had come to ignore. Gone was the ache in his arms and legs. Pulling on the hoodie he’d tied around his waist, Stiles ignored the heat and zipped it up. For a long moment he considered running, but figured he wouldn’t be able to make it far away in time and turned to a tree instead, grabbing at the lowest branches and hoisting himself up.

There weren’t many handholds, and the bark scraped at his hands, leaving angry scratches in their wake. But he continued on with grim determination. He climbed higher and higher, drawing to a pause only when the fighting in the distance stilled with one final gunshot.

Derek.

“Come back here you little fuck!” one of the Hunters, Bob, screamed.

A wave of relief overtook Stiles, and his lungs hissed as he drew in a long, overdue breath.

“Leave it alone. It’s a diversion,” one of them – Chris – shouted. “Werewolves can’t touch Fireflowers.” He stepped into the enclave, where the stem still faintly glowed. “Whoever they were covering for, they can’t have gone far,” the man announced. His eyes scanned over the ground, and he bent down to examine a snapped fern before his hand pointed toward the tree as Bob approached. “Whoever it is, they’re in that-” He cut up, eyes lighting upon Stiles in the tree before narrowing in victory. Slowly his mouth opened, curling into an angry smile as his eye lit upon Stiles. Drawing his gun up, he raised it threateningly to point at the boy. “Mind coming down?”

“No,” he replied, sounding far too cool for all that his body was a mess of hot and cold, stay and run. “I’m good.”

“Let me rephrase,” Chris amended, drawing back the hammer with his thumb. “Come down before I shoot.”

“I wouldn’t fire that if I were you.” The words were out of Stiles’ mouth before he knew they were in his head, earning a dry laugh in reply.

“Oh really?” Bob asked, resting the crossbow against one shoulder. “Enlighten me.”

The boy’s face warmed, and before they could see the blush in the low light of the moon he turned away, resting his back against the trunk of the tree with a sigh as he thought hard. He was officially bluffing. Should he take it further? What would they buy? “What’ll happen when your dear little daughter finds out you shot one of her best friends?”

Chris snorted. “Allison isn’t friends with any vampires.”

Stiles shrugged. “Really? She never mentioned the great and enigmatic Stiles Stilinski?”

The hunter stilled, looking up curiously up and down. “What are you really?”

“Not very dangerous,” the teen replied easily. “That’s for sure.”

“Then you might not mind telling us who stole the Fireflower.”

“I might.”

“Then who stole it.”

Stiles grinned. “A deer ate it.”

Chris snarled. “This isn’t time for jokes, vampire.”

“Please, call me Miłogost,” the boy suggests. “Leszy in residence.”

“Nice try, kid,” Bob spat. “Leszys don’t exist.”

Stiles leaned forward and laughed, ignoring the way the stem of the Fireflower scraped dully against his stomach. He wanted to itch it. Needed to itch it. “And yet,” he began dramatically, spreading his arms wide while attempting to keep his balance. He attempted to keep the movements slow; smooth. Like Miłogost would do. “Here I am.”

“Prove it,” Bob laughed.

“And how should I do that?”

“Shrink.” Chris’ demand hung heavy in the air, and Stiles was stumped for a moment.

“Right,” he said slowly, brain whirring into movement. Why wouldn’t he? Why wouldn’t he? _Why wouldn’t I shrink?_ “So you can steal my shoes again? Fat chance.” The Fireflower caught in his bellybutton as he carefully crossed his legs, rolling his eyes and lolling his head to the side for effect. Idly, he praised his luck that the branch could hold him at all. He hummed dismissively. “You might want to leave before someone else comes looking for the flower and thinks you took it.”

“Why don’t you just trap us in a labyrinth if you want us gone so bad?”

“Because then I’d be stuck with you. Alone. Honestly, how are you even hunters? First I don’t exist, now I’m a bad leszy. I am exactly who I am, and the next time you try to put an arrow through my spine I won’t stop at birds. I’ll shove a _mountain lion_ up your ass.”

Bob took an angry step forward, but a large hand fell on his shoulder, dragging him back.

“Our apologies, Miłogost,” Chris mused quietly. “We’re leaving.” He grabbed Bob by the scruff leading him away from the cluster of trees and further into the forest.

Stiles watched them go before something occurred to him; something oh so convenient and perfect. “Before you go, a thank you would be nice,” he called after them.

The hunters paused, turning to face him with derisive grimaces. “Oh?” Bob asked. “And why is that?”

“Because that rogue werewolf you just shot at drowned in the river,” he fibbed easily. “Gone. Kaput. Dead as a doornail, despite all the work that went in to domesticate him. The newspapers we went through. You’re welcome, by the way, since you weren’t going to volunteer that bit on your own.” For added effect, he mumbled a bitter, “Americans,” under his breath.

The hunters left in a huff.

When their footsteps faded into the white noise of hunting owls and the far off rumble of the river, Stiles climbed down the tree and set off into the forest. “Derek,” he called quietly. When no reply came, he tried again a bit louder. “Derek!”

It echoed hollowly in the dark.

He frowned. “I’m going back to the car. If you’re not dead, meet me there.”

Again, silence.

He decided to take this as a good sign.

…

It took Stiles nearly an hour to find a trail that led back to the east parking lot, stumbling through brambles and twigs and rather large rocks that really had no business being so close to the path. He briefly entertained the thought of coming back during the day with a push broom and clearing it all away, only to brush it off. Too much work.

The moon peered through the trees at last as he approached the lot, yawning widely. Approaching the vehicle, Stiles groaned comically, “I have never been so happy to see such an overpriced car.” Walking over to the passenger door, he wrenched it open and jumped back with a scream as a limp body fell to the ground with a wrenching shout. An acidic, nauseating wave of air blew up from the apparent corpse, billowing up and catching in the boy’s throat. “Oh my god,” he gasped, dry heaving at the ground as he stumbled away. “Why do you smell like death?”

“Probably because I’m dying,” Derek deadpanned in reply, voice a mere whisper. He lurched to the side, groaning angrily as he flopped onto the pavement, pushing himself up on his arms. They shook with the effort.

Stiles watched them tremble, though not for long as his eyes were drawn to the large, dark stain across the seat of his pants. “That, uh-”

“You can say it,” the man drawled angrily.

“That…”

“ _Just fucking say it_.”

“ _I think I’m going to be sick_ ,” Stiles hissed sharply, eyes fixed pointedly on the hole torn into the werewolf’s ass, pulsing black ooze with the man’s heartbeat.

Derek signed as the boy gagged, pushing himself further up on his arms and attempting to right himself in the seat. He dug the keys out of his pocket and tossed them to the other side of the car. “Drive,” he ordered weakly, turning so that most of his weight was on his hip. “Now.”

…

“Not here; left.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles guided the car into a turn. “You could just tell me where we’re going.”

“I need to focus on something,”

Glancing over, the teen found his eyes lingering all too intimately on the man’s pale, drawn face as hazel eyes fixed pointedly on the steering wheel. “Focus on your ass, then,” he suggested, voice quivering. “Your Gluteus Maxi- MaxiPus doesn’t seem to be doing so well.”

“I noticed,” Derek drawled in reply, punctuated lightly at the end by a small, nearly silent laugh. It was the barest of noises; hardly loud enough to be called a chortle. The sound sent a spike of heat up his companions spine, though he seemed oblivious to it. Suddenly, his head shot up. “Here,” he insisted. “Pull over here.”

Stiles frowned, stepping lightly on the break and easing in the clutch as they idled. “The vet? What? You got worms?”

“He has stores of wolfsbane,” he replied lowly. “He told me about them the last time I was there. One of them should counteract the poison.”

The boy gaped. “Poison? What the- Is that why you aren’t healing?”

Derek opened the door and promptly fell out.

Hopping out the the car, Stiles raced around to Derek’s side, dragging one thick arm around his neck and attempting to drag him to the door. “Oh god,” he groaned. “You’re heavy. What do you eat? Bricks?”

“Mostly currey,” he answered in all seriousness.

Stiles, despite himself, found a grin slipping across his face. “You’re just full of surprises today.”

They hobbled up to the door, where Derek proceeded to reveal a key beneath the mat. “The tricky part is getting through that,” he said as they finally stepped into the lobby, silencing the alarm with a code and the glass door closing behind them with a puff of air. “The counter is made of Mountain Ash,” he explained slowly. “You’ll have to let me in.”

Stiles glanced to the counter, then back to the man in his arms. For a moment he contemplated the merits of telling Derek he couldn’t pass mountain ash. That he was no longer ‘human enough’ to cross the line. But something gave him pause; a weight against his stomach that left him both energetic and weak. So instead of arguing he just did as he was told.

Settling Derek into a chair, the boy turned to the counter with a grimace. His hands shook as he reached for it; fingers trembling and weak. But as they wrapped around the edge of the counter the warmth in him grew, and he stared in awe as the divider lifted easily for him, the line breaking in one smooth movement. Beneath his shirt, the flower seemed to hum against his stomach before growing silent.

He raced back to the man collapsed in one of the lobby chairs, pulling him back over his shoulder before dragging him into the operating room. “Stay there,” he told him firmly, nudging Derek until he fell face first on the table. “Do you know where the wolfsbane is?”

“Gray cabinets,” he answered, muffled against the steel of the operating table. “Third from the left.”

“Got it.” Stiles tore into the door, snapping it open and peering into the high shelves. “What color would it be?”

“Purple.”

The boy paused, glancing back at the wounded man with an odd expression. “Purple?”

“What?” he hissed.

“No, nothing. Purple’s a good color. Great, actually.” Turning back to the shelf, Stiles grabbed a container that looked promising and dragged it out before snatching up a pair of tweezers lying abandoned in the sink. “Bottoms up and pants down,” he cheered. “Let’s get this party started.” The boy turned, eyes drawn to where Derek was easing down his pants and boxers. He practically jumped to his side, staring with grim fascination as- “Oh my–” Stiles heaved.

“For the love of god, if you puke on me-”

Stiles hurled, quickly positioning his head over a large tub beside the counter, emptying what was left of his pizza into the stainless steel container. He whined. “ _Puppies_ sit in you,” he sobbed, spittle trailing from his lip.

“Stiles.”

“What?”

“Focus.”

The boy whined again before turning back to the man’s ass. It had swollen, jiggling lightly with what he could only assume was fluid. And was it supposed to do that? Probably not. “This isn’t what a gunshot wound looks like,” he protested, eyes stuck on the dark pus oozing out of the man’s ass cheek.

“Pull the bullet out first,” Derek told him. “Carefully.”

“Right,” Stiles muttered breathily, staring at it, intimidated. He settled the container on the counter. He slowly moved the tweezers forward. He closed his eyes and prayed.

“What are – _don’t close your fucking eyes_.”

“Okay, okay.”

“A little to the left.”

“Right.”

“No, left.”

“ _Both our lefts are the same left, dammit!_ ”

Derek screamed as the bullet was removed, blood slipping down his thigh and further soaking his jeans as he collapsed against the counter and passed out.

…

He woke to the gentle press of a hand to his cheek.

“Please don’t be dead,” Stiles whispered. “Laura will kill me if you’re dead.”

Derk roused slowly, blinking the fog away from his eyes and shaking himself awake. He could feel the huff of breath against his neck as his companion heaved a sigh of relief, fingers dropping away to curl in the neck of his shirt. The man rose up on his arms with a groan. Everything felt sore and overused, but healing. He reached back, finding his pants and underwear had been tugged back into place, if not buttoned.

“Do I get a thank you?” the boy asked jokingly, settling beside him on the counter.

Without saying a word, Derek wrapped his arms around the boy and pulled him into his chest with a relieved laugh.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Look, NQTD has a [Playlist](http://8tracks.com/besinfection/not-quite-technical-difficulties-fst)! (Behold, the shameless plug for my [Tumblr](http://besieged-infection.tumblr.com).)
> 
> Con-crit is encouraged. Listing typos is encouraged. Pointing out problematic themes is especially encouraged.


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